


Sins Of Our Fathers

by theeventualwinner



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Blood, Horror, M/M, Romance, Torture, Violence, and a whole load of OCs - Freeform, dub-con, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-03 20:30:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 77,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2886527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theeventualwinner/pseuds/theeventualwinner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celebrimbor chooses a slippery path when Annatar first announces himself in the realm of Eregion, and it is a path that the Maia does all that he can to grease to its inevitably sticky end. A series tracing the seduction, corruption and fall of an elf lord and his people, and the grim triumph of one smug little Maia.<br/>And also guest starring a tiny bit of Angbang ;)<br/>NSFW. This is not a fluffy ship. Ignore my tags at your own risk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Superbia

The High Council of Ost-in-Edhil, the great fortress city of the Noldor perched amid the high fells of Eregion, sat arrayed in their stately finery, and seven pairs of curious eyes stared as one at the stranger come before them. From a wide, crescent-shaped table set upon a low dais they commanded the room, their lord seated firmly in the centre with his council members arcing outwards from him. Great ribbons of tinted light streamed across the hall’s expanse from the stained-glass windows studded into its vaulted walls, and they tinged the creamy marble underfoot in wondrous hues of alchemical turquoise, viridian, indigo and ruby. At the very base of the dais a wide metal-wrought circle was inlaid amid the stone, and within it a star spun of delicate veins of _mithril_ gleamed, its eight pointed rays seeming to run with liquid flames as the gentle afternoon light lapped across it.

Framed in the very epicentre of this star the stranger was poised, gazing with mild intrigue at the grandeur of the Noldorin hall about him. As he awaited the council’s commencement he stood neutrally, the oilskin hood of his dusty travelling cloak drawn back respectfully, yet guided by motives far more obscure than respect he subtly shifted his gaze to the table before him. Along its arms some council members squinted back at him, some fiddled with goblets or papers set before them, one looked abjectly bored, and the stranger’s eyes skated coolly over their ranks.  

To his extreme right a bulky, belligerent-looking _ner_ sat, his eyes simmering like cauldrons of blackest pitch as he glowered down at the stranger. A challenge then, the stranger thought wryly, though one of little consequence: all bluster and little bite he had often found men of such demeanour. It took all of his willpower to refrain from arching a self-satisfied eyebrow as the _ner’s_ frown turned into an outright scowl as the _nis_  seated next to him nudged him with her elbow, and to the _nis_  then the stranger looked. An archaic style of robe garbed her, a shimmering cloth of gold she wore fastened at the shoulder with a great brooch of yellow amethysts fashioned into the shape of a sunflower. A pretty trinket, the stranger thought it, and as she shifted in her seat the jewels threw ghostly refractions of light over her neighbours. A charming effect, surely, yet upon the _nis_  seated to her right it illumined nothing but an ancient pain. For beneath that _nis'_  sweep of silver hair a livid burn puckered over her right cheek and neck; the flesh twisted and withered into a gnarled, fibrous mass of pink scar tissue, marring the elf’s otherwise smooth features. 

A vague sense of discomfort flitted through the stranger then, and quickly he looked away. He was no stranger to scars; indeed they seemed to haunt him, yet for this _nis_  to bear one so heavily, to wear such hurt so openly sent a prickle of unease crawling his spine. He wondered how it had happened. He wondered if he had a hand in its doing. That thought wavered ominously within him for an instant, until with a practised ease he shrugged it aside, and coolly then he flicked his gaze to the opposite side of the table. 

Upon its outermost chair a _nis_  sat proudly, her gauntleted hands knitted together on the table before her, and evenly she met his glance. A curl of gaiety plucked at his lips, almost shyly he smiled at her, but as the seconds crawled by his friendly venture went unrequited. Truly, the stranger thought, wiping the smile from his face to stand neutrally once more, one might find more merriment in an abattoir. For further inwards along the table’s curve two _neri_ looked back at him; a flame-haired elf with grey eyes that unambiguously longed to be elsewhere, and a strange elf with skin the colour of burnished oak. Yet that in itself was not so strange; it was the green-inked tattoo that unfurled over the elf’s face, neck, arms and hands left exposed that intrigued the stranger so. Along his skin the tattoo coiled, sprouted, _rooted,_ in artistry so lifelike that almost it seemed he was truly wrapped in strands of some trailing clematis or snaking vine. Feathers and bone-trinkets were braided into the elf’s swept-back hair, his eyes were the milky rheum of those who had little love of the sun, and the stranger could not help but stare.

Rarely did one see an Avar come among the people of the Eldar, and to glimpse one come to power among the Noldor was rarer still. Even in all of the stranger’s long years he had encountered but a handful of the Moriquendi, and poor stock at that. They did not scream like the others, he recalled, and hard he fought to keep his face impassive as those memories quirked through him. They simply choked out their pain in mute, scratching hisses, and no false promises of freedom could buy their secrets.

Yet smoothly the stranger looked onwards, and his gaze was drawn to the elf who crowned the very centre of the table. For there Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion, presided, and with him sat the purpose of the stranger’s coming here.

Black, unbound hair fell sleekly over the elf lord’s broad shoulders, and through the close fit of his dark tunic the stranger could glimpse the curl and set of strong, well-formed muscles. A circlet of interwoven _mithril_ strands inlaid with gossamer threads of diamonds was set upon his brow in antique Noldorin fashion, framing a face both young and prideful, and boldly the elf lord met the stranger’s eyes. As one long accustomed to power and command he sat, leaning to his side with his right elbow propped upon the table’s edge while held within his hand he examined a slightly crumpled sheaf of parchment.

An intricate emblem of crossed hammers and shivering stars was picked out in crystals upon the curved back of his chair, and the gemstones of their own accord shone a pallid radiance out over their lord as he shifted, as he glanced back down at the letter in his hand. Dimly his eyes skated the words before him, and his brow furrowed as he re-read the strange tidings of his kin. 

 _Fair he seems,_ the High King Gil-galad had penned, in his own hand no less. Not days before the stranger’s sudden arrival this letter had been brought to him, the messenger that bore it only relaying his king’s impetus that Celebrimbor give thought to its urgency. _Fair he seems, but his words feel greased upon the tongue. Trust him not. He seems not wholly false, but neither is he true._    

Celebrimbor’s frown deepened, yet his dark eyes lifted to rest once more upon the stranger standing before him. No overt mark of Valinor the newcomer bore, yet to Celebrimbor’s eyes his sanctity could scarcely be refuted. Blond hair fell in mellow, honeyed locks to his waist; his golden eyes glimmered with an inner light beyond the power and ken of the mortal world. A very air of effervescence seemed to shimmer about him, a slight glitter of entrancement limned the stranger in an enticing, alluring glow; promising naught but wealth and luxury and ease. No Maia had Celebrimbor glimpsed before save the accursed Valaraukar and their foul ilk in the turmoil of battle, and yet here in the gentle light of his court surely one of their benevolent brethren stood now, a serene expression poised across handsome face.   

In other times they would have openly welcomed him into their city, without question or reservation he would have been revered. Yet the worry of the High King’s message clouded Celebrimbor’s heart; of late evil things had been stirring in the East, the Hadhodrim of Khazad-dûm grew withdrawn and wary, and vengeful ghosts now stalked the ruins of Belegost and Nogrod in the cold mountains. So the Noldor had shut their gates, the watch upon the hills and the Great Road was doubled, and even towards so fair a stranger come among them now they were mistrustful.  

“Tell me, Maia,” Celebrimbor said sternly, rousing himself to lean imperiously forwards in his chair. “What is your name?”

Immediately the stranger straightened, proudly he drew himself up, and the hint of a smile curled about his lips. Calmly, respectfully, his gaze swept the expanse of the high table until at last his eyes settled upon Celebrimbor, and in a rich, melodious voice he replied, “Aulendil I am named by those in the Blessed Realm, my exalted lords and ladies.”   

Celebrimbor’s eyebrow arched, more than one of the council members cocked their heads at such an unlikely answer, but they held their silence until at last their lord remarked, “That is a noble heritage that you claim, stranger. You hail from the Lord Aulë’s halls, then?”

“I did.”

“You _did_?”

The scepticism in the burly _ner's_ voice was biting, yet fluidly the stranger turned to meet him.

“It is a matter long past, my lord,” he replied diplomatically. “And it is of little concern here. Ere this age was first begun I was tasked by my master with labours that have often drawn me abroad, and it has been long since I have resided in his great halls.” 

The _ner's_ eyes narrowed suspiciously, menace trembled in the clench of his jaw, yet before he could speak anew the stranger smiled, and beseechingly he spoke. “If it would better please my lords and ladies of the council, you might call me Annatar.”

“The Lord of Gifts?” The flame-haired _ner_  snorted in derision, apparently jolted from his erstwhile reveries. “The titles that you claim grow ever more audacious, Maia!”

“Peace, Vëantor,” Celebrimbor snapped, and the _ner's_ mouth twisted reluctantly shut as his lord leaned forward, an expression of mild interest caught over his face. “Let him have his say.” 

“Thank you, my lord,” Annatar replied gratefully. Several ornate rings he wore about his fingers, and swiftly now he turned one upon his forefinger, pressing its great diamond hard into the skin of his palm as his fist closed about it. “No titles do I claim save those that carry truth, my lords. I have much that I might bestow upon you.” 

“Then at last we reach the matter at hand,” Celebrimbor said quickly, sensing the rankling mood of his councilmen and resolving to put swift ease to the issue. “Why have you come here, Annatar? For what reason do you present yourself before us?” 

The blond cascade of the Maia’s hair caught in a stream of clear sunlight as he stepped forward slightly, dappling him in a lulling, ethereal glow. “The ages of Ëa have been long, wearisome and full of bitter toil for those who dwell upon these shores. For years uncounted my master, and those others of his noble brethren, have turned their faces from these realms, believing them scoured of life, or holding those of such ill repute as to be unmemorable in their fathomless thoughts. The hurts of the Noldor’s rebellion sting still deep, both flesh and pride were wounded in those sad affairs, and pride is a thing hard lost even for those who are almighty. Yet with the wearing of an age, the Valar have realised their error. Should they only have acted sooner then much might have been preserved that is now lost. Much in this world might have been otherwise.

My master wishes now to make amends for such a slight. The Powers have sent forth emissaries from the Blessed Realm to aid the remnants of the Noldor in the world’s perils. Ones such as I, we have been sent to guide those left still adrift, to share the wealth and gifts of Aman long since denied to those they once deemed faithless and accursed. 

So my master has decreed my purpose, and upon his errand and with his mighty will I have come unto you, my lords and ladies. I pray only that you might honour me in this, and through me accept the gifts of the Valar sent forth to you now.” 

A long, contemplative silence rolled through the hall as the council pondered such wondrous words, and patiently Annatar awaited their response.

“You come in the guise of friendship, then?” Celebrimbor at last enquired, squinting down at Annatar as if he half-expected some vile deceit or treachery. 

“I do,” Annatar replied simply. “Forth from my master’s realms I have come freely, and to you now I offer my aid in all that I might.”

“And what might you aid in?” the golden-clad _nis_  asked, and keenly she peered down at him.

“In whatsoever my lords and ladies might see fit to ask of me.” Annatar did not move, he stood serenely at the centre of the _mithril_ -wrought star, yet as he spoke the air of the hall seemed to thicken, a glistening aura coalesced like an intoxicating mist about him. It curled and slid and beckoned with the flow of his voice. “Skills I possess, powers I wield, and they should be the envy of even the most decadent of your dreams. Of many things I have knowledge: of counsels to the great and wise, of secret wisdoms and ways of the earth, of beasts, of incantations, of empires and riches and conquests, and yet…”

The lulling chant of Annatar’s voice fell away, and as if abruptly ripped from some pleasant reverie Celebrimbor jerked backwards in his seat. A blurry sensation was left ringing in his ears, the pressure in the room seemed for an instant to buckle and re-align, yet where such things might once have sparked caution in him, he was only filled with an elation, a wonder of all the tantalising things that the Maia had spoken of. Yet looking down now Annatar he seemed almost humble. Vanished was that aura of subtle bewitchment into a mood of almost childlike bashfulness, and a strange, sudden surge of endearment rocked through Celebrimbor’s heart.

“I must profess, my lord,” the Maia said coyly, “a certain… proclivity, a passion, indeed, for smithying. In jewel-craft and metallurgy I find my delight; the forge is where my heart truly lies, in the crash of anvils and the thrill of metal, for these are as sweet to me as any flowing river or flower budding in the meadow.” 

Celebrimbor’s smile widened, eagerly he shook aside the slight ring that still hovered in his ears, and he leaned forward once more in his chair. 

“You are skilful in metallurgy, then?” 

“I do not wish to boast, lord. Modest skill I proclaim, and no more.” 

A dark, throaty laugh burst through the hall then, and frigidly Annatar turned to face the burly _neri_ who rebuked him. “Take care now, my lord,” the _ner_  rumbled, “for here is one who speaks guilefully. Pride and false contrition mingle in one tangled passage over this Maia’s gilded tongue!” 

Resentment flickered in Annatar’s eyes, but swiftly he wiped that irk from him even as Celebrimbor rounded upon his errant councilman.

“Patience, Corannon,” he said sharply, and the _ner_  looked away, sweeping the dark fall of his hair behind his shoulders as he huffed discontentedly to himself. 

“My council,” Celebrimbor continued, mastering his brusqueness and proceeding more evenly, “hear me well. If a Maia of Aulë’s host offers to us even his modest knowledge then he is not lightly to be turned aside. The wonders that lie beneath that exquisite roof live still in my dreams, fairer than all imagining. If Annatar could teach us but part of that skill, if he could replicate even a fragment of the works that lie within that house then we would be richer for it indeed. Such works we could forge, such things we could make; artifices and jewels that might rival even those of my forebears…”

“Have you knowledge of weapons of war, Annatar?” the gauntleted _nis_  upon his left asked, and eagerly she peered down at him.

“Weapons of war, my lady?” he countered smoothly. “With such devices I have had some… passing experience, yet such crude things have never moved my heart to joy. For it is given to the secret gemstones that lie in caverns yet unexplored, to the silver crowns that might adorn the worthiest of heads.” 

“Come then, Annatar,” Celebrimbor mused, drumming his fingers contemplatively upon the tabletop. “Tell me, could you teach of what you know? This knowledge, is it yours to impart? Could you equal the works of your blessed kindred, or indeed my own?”

“Perhaps, my lord,” Annatar said softly, “I might surpass them.” 

Celebrimbor’s eyes grew wide, and a snort of disbelief leapt from Vëantor’s throat. “You play a dangerous game, Maia,” he sneered, but from the opposite side of the table the golden-clad _nis_  leant forward.

“Hush,” she tutted, “you rebuke him too hotly. Temper your mood, and think well. If Annatar is true to his word then we may make this realm a place of wealth at which even the Hadhodrim in their malachite halls would blush and stutter with jealousy.” 

A murmur ran about the table then, ambitions and doubts warred in many a narrowed eye, and Annatar awaited their resolution. Passively he stood, yet with an ease that bordered dangerously upon insolence he toyed with the rings about his fingers, until at last the burned _nis_ turned to him.   

“You speak fairly, Annatar,” she whispered, her voice scarce more than a husky susurrus amid the hall’s airy pillars, “but for your beauty I sense there is yet guile in you.”

“Not so, my lady,” he replied, a look of genuine hurt moiling across his face, and plaintively he continued, “I have answered your questions with naught but legitimacy.”

“A serpent may seem beautiful, yet such radiant scales mask the poison that festers within it.”

“You wound me, my lady. Openly I have come before you, humbly and with promise of aid that my heart longs to deliver. If only by your grace it was allowed.”

“Then I have one thing that I would yet ask of you, Annatar.” 

“Anything.” 

“You are newly come to these lands, so you proclaim, upon errand from your master out of the West. Yet you speak our tongue with fluidity, with a practised ease that I would not look for in one newly come to these shores. Tell me then, how came you by such fluency?”

“You flatter me, my lady,” Annatar smiled. “Too kindly you speak of me.” 

“Answer the Lady Gilthariel’s question!” Corannon growled, yet after a savage glare from Celebrimbor he subsided into a grudging quiet. 

Irritation flashed through Annatar then, but long ere such plans were formed he had thought up his lies, and they flew like silk from his tongue. “Languages have always come easily to me, my lady. Many tongues of more complex syntax and vocabulary prevail in Aman, and one must be fluent in all, for failing in such would be a grave discourtesy. My time spent in residence with the Lords Gil-galad and Celeborn, and the Lady Galadriel upon these shores has given me ample opportunity for practise in your noble tongue. Such lyricism it possesses, such flowing vowels… I only wish that I had opportunity to venture to these lands and learn it sooner, to enrich myself of its beauty…” 

At that the Avarin elf at last stirred, and though his voice was quiet, it was not friendly. “You weave your words like cobwebs, Maia, yet honey drips from your teeth. What flies do you seek to ensnare within them?” 

“None, my lord,” Annatar replied, and desperately he stamped down the haughtiness which quavered in his tone. But though caution nudged at him to stop, pride spurred him to continue, and with an oily smile he said, “Save for those who might fly unwarily. Or those who dare the spider’s patience.”

A muscle in the Avar’s cheek flexed, but to that answer he remained stonily silent. Yet a grudging and somewhat admiring chuckle emanated from not a few council members’ throats. 

“He is a fiery one, my lord,” Vëantor remarked wryly, and the gauntleted _nis_  beside him nodded in agreement.

“He is _slippery_ ,” the Avar hissed, and for the blankness of his eyes Annatar could feel the vehemence behind his stare. “His words may carry double meanings that we cannot fathom, or they may carry no meaning at all. Smoke and coils, spirals and knots, a twisted path he seeks to lead us down, and to follow might lead only to _ruin_!”

“Come now, Iskandar,” the _nis_  said amicably. “You are unjust in your judgment. Annatar has presented himself fairly, albeit _boldly_ , and where haughtiness leads one cannot expect abject submission from its victim.”

At that Annatar’s eyes narrowed. The Quendi had grown sharp in their word-plays as the millennia had turned, yet he was sharper still. So he endured their mistrust with a veneer of docility, and with a contrite, pleading look he sought for Celebrimbor’s aid, a calculated earnestness he left shining in his eyes. But the lord seemed otherwise lost in thought; he gazed dazedly into the far recesses of the hall, and Annatar’s ploy did not quickly avail him.

No matter, he thought, for certainly now he had their attention, if only their favour might be garnered a little more readily. 

Quickly he wrestled down the rill of impatience that prickled through his chest as the council stared contemplatively down at him. Endurance would be his saviour here, he savagely reminded himself, and pride his undoing, and with a saccharine smile affixed across his features he looked pleadingly to the high table one more, to the lord who in the end would take the convincing. And to him Celebrimbor at last responded. 

“The High King has spoken in ill favour of you, Annatar,” he said slowly, carefully weighting his words to gauge the Maia’s reaction to such news. “Might you tell us as to why this could be?” 

If Celebrimbor expected some twisted flash of concealment, or some tiny, telling motion that would indicate a deception, then he was left sorely disappointed. For Annatar merely sighed, and genuine rue seemed to move him as he said, “High King Gil-galad is venerable and strong, and in many things he is wise. Yet in refusing the offer of aid that my master has presented to him I fear that his wisdom has been blinded. For a month I resided in his realm, alongside the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn and their charming daughter also, and many things we spoke of in friendship. Yet for my sincerity, ever they seemed cold to my entreaties. I do not wish to speak ill of such esteemed Quendi, but I must speak plainly, my lord. Truly I am unsure as to why my offers were checked with such chill regard. I was displeasing to them in some way, perhaps? That was never my intent, though such things may come to pass.”

“Displeasing?” Celebrimbor repeated, and a little more searchingly did his eyes run over Annatar’s tall, lithe form. “In what manner may you have been displeasing?”             

An expression of genuine distress broke over Annatar’s face then; the light in his eyes flickered and dimmed as falteringly he blinked, and beseechingly he replied, “I… I do not know, my lord. I came to them as I do to you now, with the desire and purpose only to fulfil my promises, and to make my master proud.”

“Then freely might we allow you to do so!” Celebrimbor announced, and in astonishment the council swivelled as one to face their lord. “My council,” he continued passionately, “where others have cast their lot aside, why should we hesitate to grasp this opportunity? Their loss shall give seed to our benefit! Gil-galad was overhasty in this decision perhaps, for I see no harm in giving Annatar lodgings within my house and my realm. If indeed his promises hold true, and I have no good reason to see why they should not, then we will be enriched beyond our deepest desires for it.” 

“My lord,” the burned _nis_  rasped, and solemnly she shook her head. “Perhaps we too act in rashness and not wisdom. If the High King Gil-galad, nay, if the _Lady Galadriel_ gave pause in taking aid of Annatar then perhaps we should also. I do not think that they would lightly spurn a Maia come out of the West, and it speaks ill that they have.”

“Pride often leads the heart astray, Lady Gilthariel,” Celebrimbor replied sharply, and imperiously he looked out over the hall. “The Lady Galadriel seeks no boon of the Valar, and readily she would accept none, even in so fair a form.”

“Is it pride that blinds hearts, my lord?” she persisted. “Or is it vain ambition? You have heard how this Maia speaks, my lord, you have seen how he weaves his enchantments. Even now his smiles turn to smirks; some cloying miasma hangs about him, and it blinds you to what you do not wish to see! This benevolence that he wears is but a mask for something far more perilous!” 

“Accusations you spit, Gilthariel,” the gauntleted _nis_  said heatedly, and with a well-suppressed glee set bubbling inside his stomach Annatar allowed her to argue his case. ”What proof have we that Annatar is false?”

“What proof have we that he is _true,_ Ennemirë?”

“The light of Aman shines within him,” Ennemirë pronounced, and awe brushed through her voice as she gazed once more down at Annatar’s form. For as the council had bickered, almost imperceptibly he had parted his lips, from deep within himself he had uncurled the tiniest swell of puissance, and he breathed it into the glamour that shrouded him. There he leached his power, and there it blossomed, it unfurled; it clung to his shoulders and sang of serenity, it gleamed in his eyes with such sage benevolence, it wove through the rings upon his fingers with the lure of promises to be fulfilled, with treasures unnumbered, glories beyond measure, of riches, temptations, _desires_ …

“It is a false light,” Gilthariel croaked, and her hoarse whisper sent Ennemirë tipping back into her seat with a shudder. About himself Annatar relaxed his enchantment, into a tender glow it faded once more, into an evanescent shroud that shifted and moiled so enticingly about him. “It is a witch-light. A forgery.” 

“Nay, Gilthariel,” Celebrimbor said, and though his voice was firm, he gazed at Annatar with the lolling, desperate un-focus of one heavily inebriated. Hungrily he stared, recklessly, as though he wanted to crown the Maia standing before him even as he tore him apart.

“Nay,” he repeated, and at the renewed determination in his voice the council subsided into cool silence. “I am the lord of this realm and this city, and I have made my decision. Annatar offers us a gift that would be foolish to refuse. Freely he has come, elegantly he has stood and endured our questions and indeed our _scorn_ with patience, and he has answered well. Are we to treat such a mighty artificer, one of Aulë’s golden host who might offer us so much, as if he were some vile spawn of Morgoth come crawling from his hole? No. I will not have it so, lest it be said that my halls are filled with the crude and the discourteous.

I cannot speak for the counsels of my kin. I know not what has led the High King and Lady Galadriel to reject Annatar’s boon, yet let such decisions be their own.

As Lord of Eregion I welcome you to my halls, Annatar, Aulendil, noble Maia of Aman! Here, under my protection, I would have you as my guest for as long as you should please yourself to stay. And if indeed you would seek to bestow upon us your wisdom then gratefully we would receive it! Lord I am also of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, the jewel-wrights of this city, and such knowledge as you might impart would enrich us beyond all measure. Be at ease within these walls, friend.”

Graciously Annatar smiled, viciously he stamped down the great fizz of delight that boiled up inside of him, and merrily he said, “This I will, my lord Celebrimbor, and esteemed lords and ladies of the Council. Your generosity is without equal in these lands, and well I shall repay you for your kindness.”

About the high table some faces grew stony whilst others grinned, but Annatar looked only to their lord.

“Good,” Celebrimbor nodded, and fondly he looked down upon the rather chuffed Maia standing before him. “I have only one command of you, Annatar, for in all other things you are my guest and not my subject. I bid that you abide by the laws of this city laid down by the Council and I. Strange they may seem to one come from such lands of peace and plenty, but darker times fall upon my realm. Fell tidings out of the East reach my ears, creatures howl upon the moors at night, and evil things stalk the mountain paths when bright Arien departs these lands. The safety of my people is paramount, and none are to pass the walls of this city after nightfall save by my personal consent. Furthermore, all sightings of any foreign bird, beast or man are to be reported immediately to the city guard, of whom Ennemirë here is commander. Do I have your assent to these terms?”

“Readily, my lord,” Annatar nodded. “Your prudence in such matters is admirable.” 

“Then we are agreed!” Celebrimbor grinned, and almost impishly he raised his head. “Welcome to Ost-in-Edhil, Annatar! May your labours here be fruitful!” 

Before the high table Annatar bowed deeply; he sank forwards into a stray ribbon of ruby light that sifted in through the stained-glass windows, and his mouth was streaked over with vivid, bloody crimson as he murmured, “I am most certain that they will be, my lord.”

“Excellent! Now, the hour grows late. Have you gear with you?”

“Some small possessions, my lord,” Annatar replied, straightening from his bow with a small flourish of his fingers. “My pack and arms I left with your guard ere I entered this hall.”

Celebrimbor nodded briskly, and as the council members sensed their unspoken dismissal and began to retire for the evening, Celebrimbor called, “Aethir!”

A few moments later a young elf strode into the hall, bowing smoothly as he drew to a halt at Annatar’s side.

“Find our new guest suitable rooms, Aethir,” Celebrimbor commanded. “Ensure that his belongings are brought to him quickly, and that he is made comfortable in all that he might desire.”

“Right away, my lord,” Aethir replied, and he nodded respectfully to Annatar before requesting that he followed him.

“Annatar,” Celebrimbor called suddenly, arresting the Maia’s rather saucy pirouette upon his heel into a slightly wobbled halt. A pained grimace caught for an instant over Annatar’s face, yet quickly he squashed down his slighted vanity, and pleasantly he looked to the Elven lord who stood above the emptying table. “If it would please you, I will visit you in a few hours hence. I would know that you were well housed, and perhaps we might talk a little more extensively of what gifts you might have to bear.”

Though phrased politely, there was no question in Celebrimbor’s tone, and inwardly Annatar smirked. Yet smoothly he replied, ”Of course, my lord.”

And with a surge of pleasure that took every ounce of his self-control to repress he caught the expression of naked, burning ambition for an instant flare in the elf lord’s eyes. Tightly he clung to his veneer of geniality; desperately he wrestled the triumph in his voice down to something that he fervently hoped sounded demure as he continued, “Your company would be a pleasure.”    

 

* * *

 

Grey moths flitted about the candles that softly illumined Annatar’s chambers, and as Celebrimbor knocked at the door the Maia’s melodious voice bade him enter. Into a modest yet elegant suite of rooms set into a high tower of his house the lord stepped, and across the entranceway he spied Annatar lounging upon a low couch set before the balcony. A cool night breeze wafted through the wide, open arches, rustling at the pages of the book that the Maia was leafing through with one hand whilst poising a goblet of wine in the other. A slight smirk curled about the edges of his lips as he read, a strange, almost steely glint shone in his eyes, but as Celebrimbor approached, that expression transmuted into a radiant smile that lit up his features. The ever-present shimmer about him seemed to hum out its contentedness, and as if his mood was somehow contagious Celebrimbor found himself smiling back.

“You seem very comfortable,” he said lightly, and as he stepped a little nearer, with a fluid, feline motion Annatar swung himself about on the couch, shifting his bared feet from its end so that Celebrimbor might sit. “I trust that Aethir has provided you with all that you required?”

“Indeed he has,” Annatar replied, and indulgently he grinned over to his host. He languidly straightened himself into a more formal sitting position, flicking the book shut behind him as he enquired, “Would you care for some wine, my lord? It is marvellous...”

“Certainly,” Celebrimbor shrugged, and he wandered over to the open balcony to lean against its rail. Yet as he crossed the room, furtively he glanced down at the book that Annatar had been reading. The _tengwar_ lettered over its front were smudged with age, yet its title was still more than discernable, and at it Celebrimbor arched an eyebrow. 

With two goblets of wine in hand Annatar moved to join Celebrimbor at the balcony, and in tentative silence for a while they stood, each sipping at their wine and beholding the countless stars unfurled in the clear sky above them. The moon shone full, illuminating the sheer crags of the hills in an ethereal silvery glow, and far beyond them the high peaks of the Hithaeglir glimmered like spires of liquid mercury. Below the balcony’s sturdy rail the cliff scraped away to a vertiginous drop, and as the wind shifted Celebrimbor could just hear the great rush of the confluence far below wherein the rivers Sirannon and Glanduin mingled and whirled, before passing away as the Mitheithel to the south-east. A far-distant howl pierced through the peaceful night, a wolf screamed its hunger to the skies, and at its cry Annatar smiled softly. His shoulders slumped a little as he leant both elbows against the railing, his head bowed as the cry’s echoes died away amid the broken hills, and the tranquil quiet flowed on unbroken once more.  

“My uncle composed it, you know,” Celebrimbor said abruptly, the words jumped unexpectedly to his lips, and Annatar’s gaze shifted curiously to him. “The book… the poem that you were reading. The Noldolantë. The great lament of my people…” 

“Your uncle was a talented wordsmith,” Annatar murmured, and his gaze wandered to the distant hills once more. Absently he reached up with his free hand to rub at the side of his neck, and as his fingers met flesh he winced faintly. “He had a strong shield-arm, so I have heard tell.” 

Celebrimbor tilted his head in puzzlement. Many things were said of Maglor Fëanorion, but that was not common among them. The Maia took another placid sip of his wine, and with growing interest Celebrimbor watched him. Quite plainly, Annatar intrigued him; that much he would not even try to deny to himself.

The very manner in which the Maia held himself was foreign, it was new and powerful and ancient and pure all tangled together. The words that dripped from his lips were enticing; each hint of knowledge, of wealth or power or luxury that Annatar implied sent Celebrimbor’s heart soaring with desire, each veiled barb or sly observation that the Maia wielded like spears served only to fascinate him the more. And yet entwined with the sweet and the sharp, there was somehow also the melancholy; a softness, a vulnerability that at times seemed to irradiate the Maia’s very being. 

It was downright _bizarre_ , Celebrimbor thought desperately, as he tried to wrestle his straying thoughts back into coherence. It was _unnatural_ to feel so deeply, to feel so poignantly and so complicatedly for someone who was in all aspects yet a stranger, but still it was. Strangely, stupidly, blindly, inexplicably, something about Annatar made Celebrimbor grieve for him. And yet all at once he wanted to possess him, devour him, take everything that he could give and rip it away and destroy him. Exploit him, protect him, befriend him, crown him; it all melded together into one confusing crush and for a while left him speechless.

After a few contemplative minutes Annatar at last roused himself, alertly he lifted his head to mark the passage of a squeaking little bat that flitted by the balcony, and using that small motion as a lifeline against the treacherous current of his thoughts, Celebrimbor forced himself back into polite conversation. 

For a while they spoke in friendship, wine and words flowed easily between them, and they talked of many things. Celebrimbor told of the recent plights of his people; of flurried skirmishes with goblins in the mountain passes, of hungry shadows that roamed the desolate moors, and for a while their converse was grave. But joyously Annatar told of his metallurgy, of things that he had learned of his master and things more that he might teach, secret things of his own devising that his brethren dared not attempt, and with fawning wonder Celebrimbor listened to all that was said. 

In return he wove tales of the ancient might of Beleriand, of the bravest of the deeds of his Noldorin kin. A dreamlike smile drifted over Annatar’s lips as Celebrimbor spoke more cagily of his father, yet passionately of the deeds of his grandfather, and of all the greatness that they had achieved before their ends. Warmly the conversation blossomed once more, slicked by wine and genuine good humour, and for many hours they laughed and talked as friends long sundered.

Yet upon a time such pleasantries shifted; Celebrimbor leaned eagerly forward upon the couch where they both now reclined. His dark eyes sparkled with heat, his cheeks were flushed with wine, and a clumsy, almost wistful grin twisted over his face as he looked searchingly towards the Maia.

“Your eyes are mesmerising, Annatar,” he murmured, his speech a little slurred with drunkenness, and graspingly he laid his hand upon the Maia’s shoulder. Annatar stiffened as the elf’s hand came down upon him, and he remained rigidly, painfully still as Celebrimbor continued, “They are full of shadows, but also full of light, like stirred chalices of molten gold.”

An awful moment of silence rocked through the room, until forcibly Annatar smiled, and tightly he returned, “Thank you, my lord.”  

“They are very beautiful.” The hot flush of Celebrimbor’s breath tingled up the side of his neck as the elf leaned even further forward, and as best as he could within the elf’s tightening grip Annatar turned his head aside.

“You flatter me, my lord,” he said stiffly, subtly trying to twist his shoulder free of the elf’s hold. “Such words are praise beyond measure, and of them I am undeserving.”

“Might a craftsman and a lord not appreciate beauty when he sees it?” Celebrimbor’s voice had grown sharp, his fingertips pressed uncomfortably hard into Annatar’s shoulder until at last the Maia swung back around to face him. And for an instant the look of anger, the look of rage and hurt and such unfathomable _hatred_ in Annatar’s eyes robbed them of their beauty, it set them ablaze in ugly flames.

_Do not touch me._

The words erupted in a gout of pain within Celebrimbor’s skull, it felt as if someone had slammed a hammer into his stomach, and that sudden agony sent him reeling backwards in shock. His hand leapt free of the Maia’s shoulder as if his tunic had scalded him, and instantly that pain subsided, it vanished so utterly, so quickly that Celebrimbor was not entirely sure if it was real, or just some aberrant, potent delusion brought on by the wine. 

As he looked back to Annatar his mouth tasted soured, his head throbbed unpleasantly, but an instant later a dreadful concern lanced through his heart. For if he felt unwell, then all the more Annatar looked it. Ashen-faced the Maia sat, staring off into the star spangled night, and it seemed that a great weariness had been tipped suddenly upon his shoulders. 

“I’m sorry,” Celebrimbor whispered at last, as the silence that stretched between them became cavernous, became unbearable. “Annatar, I am sorry… I -  If I have caused offense then I meant nothing by it. I am not sure what possessed me…”   

The breeze blew Annatar’s hair across his face as he turned aside, and his words too were veiled as he sighed, “It is all right, my lord. The fault was mine. Such words… such words should not be met with cold regard.” For a moment Annatar wavered, it looked as if he were about to say something more and earnestly Celebrimbor watched him. Yet such torrid hopes went unanswered as the Maia stifled a yawn, and wearily he continued, “Might I beg your leave for the night, my lord? The hour is late, and I have journeyed far this day.” 

“Of course,” Celebrimbor said apologetically, and hastily he arose from the couch. “If we may meet on the morrow, then? Two hours past noon, in the central hall of the House of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. I will have Aethir escort you.” 

“It would be my pleasure,” Annatar purred, and as his host bade him good night and departed, he meandered over to his bedchamber, plucking up the discarded book from behind a pillow of the couch as he did so.

The pressure of the elf’s touch still lingered unpleasantly upon his shoulder, and his smile curdled into a scowl as he tried to shake that sensation away. Not in millennia had he been touched like that, so derisively, so _possessively_ , and the mountains of this earth would crumble into dust before he permitted some filthy elf lord to ever do so again. Mistrust, arrogance, conceit, ambition; these things he could twist, these things he would cozen and stroke and charm to his own purposes in anyone fool enough to cross his path. But this, he wondered, slowly dampening the candles as he wandered his way to his bed, this was… unexpected. Perhaps the glamour that he had woven about himself was altogether too alluring, as for a moment the elf’s such brazen, _unwarranted_ attentions had caught him entirely off guard.   

However, some small, smug thing in him chimed suddenly, such attentions were not without use. That thought grew in his mind, and elegantly he stroked its vain little fire. For if this elf lord in his arrogance, in his oh too delicious blindness chose to tumble so willingly into his trap, then why not let him? Encourage him, entrance him, swallow down his own disgust and snare the lord yet deeper. It would not be so great a sacrifice, after all. Conducted upon his own terms, it might even be amusing. And if laughs and touches and flirtatious little smiles would help to grease the ruinous pathway that he wrought then all the sweeter might be the elf lord’s slide, all the more gutting might be its end.   

To the morning then, he thought, and a gluttonous smile curved over his lips as he stripped off his tunic and settled himself comfortably within the bed. The book he flicked back open across his lap, but though his eyes scanned over the printed words, his thoughts raced far beyond them.

To the morning then, and to whatever new games the dawn might see begun.

  

* * *

 

 _I really, really hope that you have enjoyed the beginning of what promises to be a very fun little series! The next chapter will be up just as soon as I can get it written (provided you don't all turn around screaming 'oh god no stop!') And as usual, all comments are treasured! Yours, theeventualwinner_. 

_EDIT: A huge thank you to everyone who has been so nice and supportive about me beginning this piece (it's been less than 24 hours as of typing this ohmygod!) Every word of encouragement or advice is appreciated. And a shout out to Snartha's piece of[absolutely gorgeous fanart](http://snartha.tumblr.com/post/106388287361/dat-feel-when-markedasinfernal-starts-a-new-fic) which I am unworthy to have been mentioned in <3_

_EDIT PART TWO: Check out ajax-daughter-of-telamon's wonderful visualisations of Ost-in-Edhil's High Council on tumblr - they're really lovely images to help get characters in your heads! To be updated as more are completed but we've got a very dashing[Corannon](http://markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/post/142836822702/ajax-daughter-of-telamon-i-finished-corannon) and a stunning [Iskandar](http://markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/post/143023551712/ajax-daughter-of-telamon-i-finished-iskandar) and [Vëantor](http://ajax-daughter-of-telamon.tumblr.com/post/142814698082/this-is-v%C3%ABantor-another-of-markedasinfernals) thus far :D_


	2. Invidia

The afternoon light shone drear and grey through the thick banks of cloud that crawled across the skies, casting a gloomy pall over the streets of the Elven city. As agreed, Celebrimbor’s steward had collected Annatar shortly after midday, and Annatar now followed him quite amicably as they strolled through the upper levels of the city and towards the halls of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.

Ost-in-Edhil was of an unusual design, Aethir had explained as they walked beyond the outer gates of the lordly estate and out into the city beyond. Rarely did the Noldor deliberately choose to inhabit such hostile terrain as the stark hills of Eregion, and under such circumstances their typically gentle city planning was thrust aside in favour of practicality. 

Celebrimbor’s noble house perched upon the pinnacle the hillside; a marvel of stonemasonry emulating the glimmering spires of Gondolin that had long since been scoured from the world. Its walls were sculpted of pale peach marble imported from Belegost’s now-ruined quarries, and its surfaces moiled with a beautiful pearlescent sheen that the Noldor in their skill had coaxed from it. The house stood proudly framed by an expanse of terraced gardens sliced into the hill’s steep sides, and beyond them the city proper sloped away towards all points of the compass. 

Beneath shady arbours of willows and beeches, through the delicately sculpted streets of the upper courtesan’s circle Aethir led the way, and eagerly Annatar listened to what he told as he appraised the buildings and roads about him. Never before had he set foot in an Elven city that was not shattered by war, whose stonework was not left rent and crumbling, and its slain left bloodied and mutilated in the streets. It was interesting in a clinical sort of way, he supposed, to appreciate what for so long he had sought to destroy.

At the slightest hint of encouragement Aethir would chatter quite merrily away, pointing out intricately carved statues of the heroes of old, of famed warriors of Nargothrond and Gondolin with their weapons held aloft, or of the Valar captured in elemental form; a preening eagle, or a rearing horse, or a fleet deer. From them Annatar subtly turned his face, with far more interest he looked to the stores along their winding route that stocked wares of all manners; herbalists who boasted cured vines, exotic skins, and foreign alchemical compounds imported from the furthest jungles of Rhûn, dressmakers who embroidered silks and furs with such finery that the fashionable maidens of the city might swoon to wear them, cartographers who claimed to possess charts and maps to navigate even the broken tundra of the North, and at the arrogance of that particular supposition Annatar stifled a rather haughty smirk.

The city thrived on commerce, Aethir remarked proudly, and Annatar nodded as they skirted a large plaza centred about a pool containing an opulent fountain of two rather ambitiously intertwined dolphins. The riches of the Dwarves of nearby Khazad-dûm imbued the city with wealth, Aethir told, and Ost-in-Edhil’s strategic position amid the rugged northeast of the Noldorin territories commanded the major trade route in gemstones and precious metals over both land and river. By wain and by barge such goods and craft were brought and disseminated through the inhabited North, and all flowed first through their city’s markets.  

At last he and Aethir emerged onto the great parapet that girded the city like a belt, dividing the orderly courtesan’s circle from the more frenetic marketplaces below, and despite the grim lour of the skies the view was nonetheless impressive. A grey, curved ribbon of glittering water to the east marked the passage of the Sirannon, its stream running swift with melt-water from the shrouded peaks of the Hithaeglir, and as he leaned out over the ramparts Annatar could just make out the squirming movements of men and wagons along the wide, dusty track that wound beside it.

“The East Road, my lord,” Aethir remarked, following Annatar’s line of sight. “Towards Hadhodrond, that is Moria in the common tongue, and the mines of Khazad-dûm it runs, just over two days travel by wagon. A great portion of my lord’s trade flows thence, before passing away southwest by the Glanduin towards the Mannish settlement at the Crossing, or northwest by road to the dwellings of our kin. Long have we fostered friendship between ourselves and the Hadhodrim who dwell under the mountain, and the wealth that we have share in is beyond count because of it.”

“It seems an unlikely allegiance,” Annatar frowned, and he squinted over at Aethir through the sudden gust of wind that blew his hair in a messy blond veil across his face. “About the High King Gil-galad’s halls,” he began anew, rather irksomely brushing stray strands of hair from his cheeks, “I have heard the Hadhodrim spoken of with contempt. Naugrim they were named, and there seemed little love for their people in the Quendi of those lands.“

“We have worked hard for our cordiality, my lord,” Aethir said carefully. “Old quarrels have sundered our peoples, and many still clutch to those grievances tightly. But my lord Celebrimbor and his council are eager to see ancient turmoil laid aside in these new days. The Longbeards of Moria descend from Durin the Deathless in direct lineage, they founded the mines of Dwarrowdelf above blesséd lake of Kheled-zaram in ages long past, and they have grown mighty in their craft. In peace and friendship they offer to us a great wealth, both in coin and in knowledge. Elsewhere it is said that the lord Celebrimbor was over-eager in his judgement of alliance, yet ever opinions will dissent…”

Aethir trailed off, his lips quirked as if somehow he feared that he had revealed too much, and at that expression Annatar’s eyes narrowed. Yet he held his peace, and with that little curl of knowledge left to brew inside of him he looked out over the city once more.

The precipitous drop below them was broken by roofs and turrets shaped in a clash of eclectic styles; quilted canvas tents and corrugated metals clustered at the bases of regal minarets, markets lodged between rows of elegant theatres and taverns, stables and barracks crammed next to fine, tall towers of polished stone. Busy streets squeezed through the crush like throbbing veins shot through some great quivering muscle, and somehow Annatar felt soothed by the sight of them.

For unlike Gil-galad’s austere city amid the fens, unlike the abandoned tree-dwellings of the vagrant Laiquendi or the crumbled ruins of the Sindar, unlike to even the ghostly spires of Minas Tirith upon its haunted isle that he had ruled millennia ago, this city felt _alive_. Its very foundations seemed rich, seemed puissant; _deep we are delved_ , the stones seemed to rumble, _high we are built, fair we are wrought, while they live among us._ Its energies felt paced, its pulse beat with the cries of traders that drifted upwards upon the breeze, with the hammers and stitches and saws of craftsmen, with the throng and mill of crowds far below, with the amorous smiles and flirtatious touches of two young elves who strolled hand in hand across the plaza behind him.

An envious smile hinted at the corners of his lips, his eyes glinted in the sour daylight as an unlooked-for swell of melancholy rose in his heat. For though so different, so pale and so accursedly _Elven_ , some things remained the same. Smudges of smoke billowed up from foundries far below him; the acrid tang of metal was borne upon the breeze. However distantly, the city reminded him of home.    

After a short while Aethir led him onwards, winding further west through the placid echelons of the upper circle until finally they came before the doors of an immense hall. Its domed roof sloped away before them; it dwarfed them in its sheer grandeur. Great carven pillars were set at its forefront in creamy marble, delicate murals or spiralling abstract patterns were picked out in threads of shimmering silver and gold across their expanses, and at the undeniable skill of the metalworking Annatar nodded appreciatively. 

Up the grand stairs and through the doors left thrown open to the day he followed Aethir, emerging into an entrance hall no less decadent than its exterior. Above and about the doorway spells of forging and power were laid into the stone, lanterns of a swirling, intricate design were studded into the walls, and they spilled a muted glow across the flushed marble underfoot. The very air seemed to prickle over Annatar’s skin as he crossed the threshold, and almost subconsciously he tugged the sleeves of his robe further down to cover himself. A shiver of an ancient puissance passed through him, and cold then grew his wonder. For though the Noldor of this city were but poor remnants of the high families of the West, a vestige of their youthful power resided within these walls, and it instinctively warded itself against him despite his fair glamour. Sourly he acknowledged it, and with a slight curl of his own puissance he slipped it from himself, and he kept his face carefully impassive as he felt that strange pressure at last withdraw.

“Annatar!” A rich, merry call distracted him from such thoughts, and with lightning-quick fluidity he righted his mood. A slick smile spread over his handsome features as he spotted the elf lord who had hailed him. Clad in plain yet well-made working attire Celebrimbor strode over, and he smiled welcomingly as the Maia shook his outstretched hand in greeting.

“It is the highest of honours to embrace you into the halls of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain,” Celebrimbor said expansively, and fondly his gaze wandered over the entrance chamber before settling upon his guest once more. “I trust that you are well?”

“Exceedingly,” Annatar replied. “Aethir was just acquainting me with some of the sights of your fair city. Truly it is a marvel.” 

“I am glad that you find it to your liking,” the lord smiled, and he turned to relieve Aethir of his duties as a guide, and bade him return to his tasks within the main house. The steward bowed politely as he was dismissed, and as his footsteps receded across the marble he left Annatar and Celebrimbor alone amid the wide, airy splendour of the hall.

“Come, walk with me,” Celebrimbor beckoned, and coolly Annatar slipped into pace beside him as they strolled across the hall and down a wide corridor that branched from it. “Here is the principle work place of our guild, the People of the Jewel-smiths as we name ourselves. Many talented artisans ply their trade within this city, hoping to spin riches for themselves or win renown for their skill, and the very finest of them we invite into our fold. Smiths we house, metallurgists and jewel-cutters, masons and stonewrights, all of whom could rival the works of my people in the prime of our years. Some also who show promise in their youth we take on as apprentices, and here tutor them in whatever trades they desire to learn. Under my patronage, and that sponsored by the city’s commerce, we craft here what we will.”

As Celebrimbor spoke Annatar gazed contemplatively at his surrounds, his eyes lingered upon the glimpses of the ongoing works through the open doorways that blinked past him as they traversed the corridor. A shower of phosphorescent sparks burst and spluttered like dying little stars as an elf quenched a livid brand of steel into a pot of viscous, greenish liquid; hammers thudded and crashed upon anvils, their wielders cast into shadowed silhouettes before the crimson glow of great furnaces left to burn, and the air about them shimmered in oily waves with their heat.

“Here the wealth of this city, of my people, is concentrated. The most precious of gemstones delved from the depths of the mountains are polished in these halls, the finest of the Gonnhirrim’s _mithril_ that they will consent to part with runs through our forges, and here we shape it.” 

They clove through a knot of chattering apprentices who hastily bowed and scurried out of the way as the lords strode through them, and almost without breaking breath Celebrimbor continued, “Under this roof some of the greatest works of our time have been smelted. The keenest swords have been whetted, the brightest jewels have been set amid kingly crowns, and they have made us the envy of all who look upon us. Even the skilled wrights of Gil-galad’s regal court could not hope to compare to our mastery… I can only wish, I can only _dream_ , Annatar, that the knowledge that you might bear will further augment such prosperity, it will swell us with wealth and renown.”

Annatar made some neutral noise in the back of his throat; he was far more interested by a huge slab of obsidian glass that a young _nis_ was sculpting in a nearby workroom than the arrogant preening of this elf lord caught up in his delusions of grandeur. His halls were fair, his forges were adequate, there could be little argument of blatant fact. But in Annatar’s mind there were foundries far greater.

Concealed in his barren, broken lands to the East he had fashioned immense forges of iron and steel that glowed and seethed in their subterranean malevolence, ferrous mines gouged into the earth like wounds, great wheels of industry were turned by arcane pressures that he channelled up from the tortured, squirming bowels of the earth. His furnaces were not stoked by coal but by the raw heat of molten rock, the grinding anger of fiery Orodruin he harnessed and made his own, he distilled its hatred into his own vengeful projects. And for all this newfound might such things were but mere shadows of the colossal foundries that pounded still in his dreams, that lay now dead and cold under the ruins of another age. 

These Elven forges were but playthings, laughable little pastimes to be tinkered with and then cast aside, and a sudden swell of churlishness rose in Annatar’s heart. Was this truly the best that the Noldor had to offer? It was almost unfair of him to bother with his deceptions, if _this_ was to be the dull backdrop to them. Yet such annoyances must be endured, he chided himself, and the shimmering aura about him grew thick as his thoughts twisted to gluttony. Encourage them, he thought, take these elves and beguile them, impress them, ensnare them within their own petty ambitions and there watch them thrash as he bound them yet tighter. Watch them twitch and jerk as he throttled the life from them.

Side by side he and Celebrimbor rounded a sharp corner, and the abrupt change in direction jolted Annatar to alertness once more. The elf peered at him quizzically, still waiting for a reply, for the assurance that he had not deigned to give. Swiftly he amended himself, and even though the repetitions were beginning to grate, affably he said, “My deepest apologies, my lord. I was momentarily lost in thought. Of course I will impart to you all that I might, for so I have given my word, and I am no traitor to promises once made.”

With that Celebrimbor seemed satisfied, and for a while longer they wandered the halls. Celebrimbor proudly gave tour of the store-rooms of metals, gems, and alchemical powders; of the blast furnaces at the rear of the complex manned by burly, sweating elves clad thickly in flameproof leathers, of the arc furnace stoked by the whispered incantations of a lone thaumaturge, and the molten _mithril_ that poured from the furnace’s chute shone as brightly as the spell upon her lips.

Ever Annatar kept up a pleasant stream of conversation, asking questions where to him it felt appropriate to express curiosity, and Celebrimbor answered him well as they walked, pleasure stirring his stern features to gladness as the Maia seemed genuinely intrigued by the doings and functions of his guild. Greetings and mumbled ‘my lords’ washed over them as apprentices and nobles alike passed by upon their errands; Corannon clapped Celebrimbor warmly upon the arm as he wandered past sporting some magnificently singed eyebrows, and as Annatar shook his hand it was all that he could do to stifle the vindictive mirth that came bubbling up his throat.    

Down an airy, wide passageway to the rear of the main house they went last, and midway down it came to an abrupt pause as suddenly a door to their right was flung open beside them. A billow of colourless smoke heralded the lunge of a panicked apprentice to a position of relative safety beside the gently steaming doorframe, and a look of utter mortification crept over the young elf’s face as he noticed the two lords staring at back him. Yet before any could speak, a deep, raucous laugh emanated from inside the smoky room.

“Well, laddie!” a hearty voice boomed, and the apprentice positively quailed to hear it. “That’ll teach you to label your compounds properly! Now, get your cowardly arse in here and clean this mess up! By Mahal’s beard, if more of you mixed up your lithium and rubidium there’d be a good shot less of you…”

A bump and a slight fizzing noise preceded a string of rather creative obscenities, and with a terribly sheepish expression upon his face the apprentice slunk back into the room.

Annatar’s eyebrow rose in bemusement as he looked to Celebrimbor for an explanation, but the lord just rolled his eyes and sighed, and continued on down the corridor.

“Narvi,” he remarked a few paces later, yet for his disparaging tone, a true note of friendliness underpinned it. “One of the famed stonewrights of Khazad-dûm. He has been my guest for a month or so now, in return for a favour paid to him and to his lord under the mountain.” 

“He seems a lively fellow,” Annatar nodded, and Celebrimbor grinned at him in response.

“He does take a rather vicious pleasure in whittling my apprentices down to size. Some of those alchemical reactions he so enjoys teaching are near lethal when performed incorrectly… Ah, but strength to him! He is a most goodly dwarf, an enthusiastic instructor and the most excellent of company. You will like him, I think,” Celebrimbor finished fondly, before opening a gilded pair of doors set into the very end of the corridor and striding through them. 

“My workshop,” he intoned simply, and placidly Annatar trailed him through the doors. A modest forge glowed in the far corner, an orderly line of leather-wrapped poker handles emerged from its cherry-red mouth to overhang a small anvil set nearby, and upon several sturdy benches laid along the walls of the room was arrayed the typical clutter of smithcraft; protective clothing, stones, tools and a multitude of minor apparatus occupied nearly every inch of space over their surfaces. Daylight filtered in from a great circular window set high into the northern wall, and the shadow of the wrought window-panes threw an eight-rayed star to hover in monochrome glory over the centre of the floor. Across it Celebrimbor walked, a sudden twinge of nervousness plucking through him as he sat himself before a bench and picked up the item upon which he had spent the morning working. 

A small circlet of silver gleamed within his fingers, woven with an intricate design of wafer-thin metal teased into a delicate, open circle; a pretty bracelet to be worn about the wrist of a fashionable young _nis_  of the court. Almost abashedly he turned it within his hand, he tried to smooth down the edginess that clutched at him as he waited for the Maia to react, to show some sign of consideration, of acceptance of his workplace. This room typically kept private now seemed awfully exposed. Of what he expected of Annatar, of what exactly he _wanted_ he was unsure, and the Maia stood poised with such fey elegance before him that it made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. The air seemed to close with expectation, Annatar’s gaze was unearthly, and desperately Celebrimbor held to the bracelet as he waited, with painful, childlike hope searching Annatar’s face for the approval that he so suddenly, so _fervently_ wished to see. 

Annatar’s reaction, when at last it came, was tranquil, but it set a warm glow of triumph washing through Celebrimbor’s stomach. For he simply smiled, a mellow light seemed to suffuse him as his eyes skated about the workroom, and as those wondrous golden irises settled at last upon him Celebrimbor found himself stifling an unbidden shiver. 

“You are a skilled silversmith, my lord,” the Maia purred, inclining his head to indicate the bracelet that Celebrimbor fidgeted with. He meandered over to examine it more closely, and the esteem, the encouragement in his eyes sent a great swell of happiness through Celebrimbor’s heart. And, no matter how hard he might have later denied it to himself, it sent no small measure of _relief_ rushing through him as well. Deprecatingly he smiled, for such was the allure in the Maia’s voice, such was the terribly sensual note sent thrumming within it that it made his head swim. It banished what suave words of thanks he had marshalled and it dragged up something entirely different in their stead. 

“My father named me Tyelperinquar,” he murmured, almost coyly he smiled, and an instant later a pink blush touched the very tips of his ears as he realised what exactly had just come over his lips. But Annatar merely chuckled, a delighted grin curved over his face as he leaned back against the edge of the workbench. 

“That is quite a mouthful,” he said teasingly. But where ordinarily such words would have stung, they would have seemed barbed and venomous and Celebrimbor would have replied with acrimony in kind, with Annatar leaning there so casually, quite unexpectedly Celebrimbor found himself smiling shyly back. 

“Well,” he began archly, trying to salvage what of his lordly composure he could, but the Maia’s smile was just so _mischievous_ … “Um… I – I used to go by Tyelpë. My uncles used to call me that. But you could call me that too, if you wanted. I mean… if…”

It was almost too cruel, Annatar crooned to himself. One subtle curl of puissance and he could have this elf lord on his knees, he could make him beg for him, keen for him, _bleed_ for him. It would be so achingly simple. But where then would be the fun? So he simply thinned the glamour that enshrouded him, and evenly he replied, “As you wish, my lord.”

“You…” Celebrimbor faltered, he blinked at Annatar as if somehow he appeared different, as if he had suddenly stumbled into some blinding stream of light. “You don’t have to use the honorific, you know,” he continued more steadily. “You are my guest here. You are not subject to me.” 

At that Annatar looked surprised, perhaps even a hint of embarrassment flickered over his handsome cheeks, and softly he replied, “Thank you, my - … Thank you, Tyelpë. I will try as best as I am able. But I am afraid that old habits linger, and in ones as ancient as I they are not easily broken.”

Celebrimbor shrugged then, with a far more decorous air he turned aside, and as Annatar wandered away to examine the jars of gemstones and semi-precious metal blocks that were arranged over a distant bench, he took up a small pair of pliers and began to tease and curl the strands of metal.

“Is it a sterling alloy?” Annatar enquired, waving to the circlet in Celebrimbor’s hand as he poked through a small jar of purple amethysts. “Or do you typically work with rhodium plating?”

“Neither,” answered Celebrimbor, and he squinted hard at the mesh of silver strands before delicately shifting one to a more graceful slant. “Here it is commonplace to substitute metallic germanium in place of a percentage of copper within the alloy. The Hadhodrim distil it from their scrap copper ores, and when smelted into a common sterling alloy it imbues the silver with more desirable qualities.” 

“Resistance to firescale…” Annatar mused, his eyes narrowed as he tried to recall the properties of such an uncommon element and its rather esoteric uses. “It will not tarnish so easily… But does it not render the silver too rigid to be worked?”  

“It can be problematic if the metallurgist is not accurate in their measurements,” Celebrimbor said quietly. “Such a smooth metal becomes so _difficult_ …”

“Then your craft must become more guileful to match.” At the sudden intensity in Annatar’s tone, Celebrimbor glanced upwards, and from beside him the Maia smiled so disarmingly at him that for a moment Celebrimbor felt as if he had been winded. 

“You mask your expertise in modesty, Annatar,” he murmured at last, with some difficulty swallowing down the throatiness in his voice. His heartbeat drummed in his ears, all too keenly he became aware of Annatar’s proximity, and hard he fought down the urgent impulse to reach out and just for a moment touch him. “You should prove no mean smith either, if so skilfully you are able to offer advice upon the most obscure of alloys.”

“You flatter, my lord.” The Maia’s voice was low, seductive; his words seemed to hover in the air for longer than their natural wont. “Yet I have always loved silver the best, in all of its forms.”

“Really?” Desperately Celebrimbor struggled to banish the hunger from his voice, almost drunkenly he stared at the Maia’s handsome form; the honeyed fall of his hair, the auric rings across his clever fingers that seemed laden with such potential, the golden glitter in his eyes that was so dangerously alluring… 

“It seems…” he began anew, pausing to clear his throat from the huskiness that clotted it, to wrestle his straying thoughts back into orderliness. “It seems to me that gold is more to your tastes.”   

For a moment Annatar seemed to falter, some indeterminate expression flickered over his face but his voice was level as he replied, “It is a comely metal in its elemental form: pliable, ductile and stately indeed. Yet it is to silver that my heart has always been drawn. It is gentler perhaps in its sheen, yet it is far more versatile. Under a stern hand, it is far more _malleable_." 

A thrill of unwise desire crawled up Celebrimbor’s spine at the Maia’s last, soft, word. Yet quickly he mastered himself, he tamed the treacherous stream of his thoughts and bound them, and he forced himself to continue speaking upon subjects of altogether more functional occupations.

 

* * *

 

On that first day they spoke of many things together. Celebrimbor talked at length over the standard practises of Noldorin smithcraft, and to this Annatar listened intently. For while many of the principles remained the same as the practises which he commonly employed, the Noldor had developed new smelting and jewel-smithing techniques of their own in the years of their exile, and with them Annatar resolved to familiarise himself. But where Celebrimbor talked of the common difficulties that they encountered in their craft, he began to offer what preliminary solutions came logically to his mind, and eagerly then did Celebrimbor hearken to him.  

Wondrous seemed his words, they belied a strange, foreign logic that was at once repulsive and intuitively attractive, and as the weeks turned, the hints and possibilities that Annatar spoke of coalesced into realities. Ways of artificing and of jewel-cutting he taught that yielded gemstones brighter and clearer than any yet wrought by the Jewel-smiths’ hands, and such was the grace with which he set and strung them amid glimmering nets of woven metals that in those hours they near proclaimed him a god. Yet for his skill that became more undeniable by the day, ever Annatar was pleasant, no hint of arrogance or haughtiness marred his features as he worked among all echelons of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain’s ranks, and freely he would advise whomsoever might ask for his wisdom.

Seminars he would give to the shy apprentices who braved themselves to ask for his aid, patiently he would reward them, and such was his way among them that at even a hint of his praise they would blush and duck their heads aside. Upon more personal projects of the senior members of the House he would consult; arcane methods of smithying thought by the Noldor lost to the annals of history he saw revived and utilised once more, and for it their craft was greatly enriched. Jewellery, weaponry, wares, metallurgy; upon all subjects he would speak with wisdom, and eagerly the Noldor would follow where he led.  

To their lord the most ardent of his attentions were given, and often he could be found at Celebrimbor’s side if he was not otherwise occupied. Though at first they fenced about each other, their conversations thrust and parried as do all fledgling friendships forged in uneasy times, as the days rolled by a true sense of camaraderie began to unfurl between them. The elf was not _so_ hateful, Annatar persuaded himself; his company was not wholly unpleasant. Upon matters both frivolous and grave they would speak into the late hours of the night, companionably they would ride together through Eregion’s wandering valleys, and cross or heated words were rare between them.   

Ever an air of taut flirtatiousness hovered between them, so sharp it seemed almost uncannily natural. For Annatar’s glamour was cunningly woven, subtly he cast his snares when the opportunities arose, and Celebrimbor tripped heedlessly into them.

The luxury in Annatar’s smile seemed to set some tiny flare of heat to prickle in his stomach if ever the Maia graced him with it; the casual brush of his arm as they walked together seemed to linger for far longer than it should upon his skin. With increasing frequency he would have to catch himself, he would have to force himself to concentrate upon the grain of the metal that Annatar might be discussing, or the smoothness of the ring he was forging, of the modifications to the blast furnaces that he was expounding upon, instead of letting more sensual thoughts sway him.

For years uncounted thoughts of such nature had scarcely crossed his mind; passing interests in a few of the courtly _nissi_ proved to be just that, and for years longer he had thought himself quite uninterested in intimate encounters with either sex. Yet more and more he began to notice the shapeliness of Annatar’s body; the strong muscles that clenched and flexed under his tunic as he moved, the smiles that played over his lips as he spoke, as he whispered, as he laughed. The tilt of his hips as he leant against a bench or a wall was so playfully charming, the slight furrow of his brows as he concentrated was so oddly endearing, and the press of his hand over Celebrimbor’s own as he corrected his grip upon a chisel sent a swell of unbidden arousal throbbing through him. Less did he come to find the Maia’s occasional slip into formal titles to be unsettling; he found himself relishing in every ‘my lord’ that purred so softly over his lips. 

He began to wonder what else Annatar’s lips might do. 

What other utterances might slip over them, he thought, what sharp little gasps of pleasure might he elicit with a caress, with the press and heat of his body against the Maia’s own. What unlordly noises might tumble from those lips if but once he might take him, possess him, kiss him, worship him; what aching light would simmer in his eyes if one day he toppled him, crowned him, pressed him down into the pillows of his bed and _fucked_ him… 

Coldly he thrust such fantasies from himself, he tried to expunge every cloying trace of their temptation even as they seemed to seep into his skin. Such feelings were _unseemly_ , he told himself firmly, they were wrong, they were ill-becoming of a noble lord and most importantly they were _unrequited_. Annatar was a guest, _his_ guest, and never would he impose himself so violently upon another if his affections were unwanted.

And yet…

Annatar could be fey and obtuse when he so chose, that much at least Celebrimbor had deduced of him. He would flatter, he would tease and hint and toy until at the last he would withdraw, he would leave such awful desire cramping through Celebrimbor’s innards that more than once he almost broke, he almost had buckled. But pride had asserted itself with a vengeance within him, with steely decorum he had wrestled down those thoughts that he dared not cozen, that he dared not question the origin of, and steadfastly he clung to Annatar’s friendship. But for all that the Maia remained aloof of him, never truly did he rebuff him, and that tantalising sliver of hope ever preyed upon Celebrimbor’s heart.

 

* * *

 

The crescent moon shone thinly through the slurry of the clouds, casting a sickly wash over the steep, frosty slopes. The wind moaned through the gullies and ridges that cracked over the high passes of the Hithaeglir, and within their depths, evil things stirred. Fell jaws opened, thin tongues licked over serrated teeth as the things wakened, as luminous eyes slitted open in the gloom. For centuries they had endured amid the caves of the mountains, they had lurked in the hollows of the hills, and by moonlight they hunted when their bellies grew cold and empty. Yet now they were glutted, through bloodied meat and flailing limbs they had crunched not a week before, and it was not hunger that now drew them from their dormancy.

A scent was borne upon the breeze, a message scrawled in an ancient tongue and through blackest sorcery disseminated upon the winds. The words lapped and tickled at their gnarled ears, through skull and hide the message flitted, penetrated, _commanded_ , and instinctively the creatures understood. They hearkened to the words, these feral beasts that scourged the mountains and made obeisance to none save their own savage delights roused themselves from their slumber. Unveiled under the night sky they emerged, bones cracked and fur bristled as they stood, and as one, they obeyed.

 

* * *

 

Annatar at last stepped away from the balcony, a wearied expression clouding over his features as he wandered back into Celebrimbor’s sitting chambers. The lord, from where he sat entrenched behind his writing desk leafing through the seemingly endless accords of the city’s renewed trade agreements with Forlindon, Vinyalondë and Mithlond that Tirlossë had presented him with earlier, paid him little heed save for a slightly puzzled glance. After one final glance over, Celebrimbor quickly lettered his name upon the documents and stamped them with his seal, before bundling them together with a neat length of ribbon and setting them aside.

Annatar meanwhile had sunk himself deeply into one of the plush couches that were positioned about Celebrimbor’s stately room, sprawling there tiredly as he reached for a glass of sparkling cider that was placed upon the low table before him. The bittersweet tang of the drink upon his tongue helped to soothe him, it numbed away the acrid taste of sorcery and as he arranged the pillows more comfortably behind his back he noticed the elf subtly eyeing him from his desk. Celebrimbor, for his part, made every attempt to be surreptitious, yet as his eyes lingered across Annatar’s body he felt his gaze become more certain. The jewel-studded rings that the Maia wore shone so marvellously against the duller metal of the cup in his hand, the heels of his boots were perched so elegantly upon the wooden arm of the couch, the slight part of his thighs as he reclined was so terribly alluring… 

Quickly Celebrimbor stifled such thoughts, he tried to dispel the familiar squirming sensation that turned in his stomach, and as his eyes flickered to Annatar’s face a sudden concern brushed through him. 

“Are you all right?” Haggardness clung to the Maia’s usually smooth features, and limned in the faint wash of the moonlight he looked all too pale. “Annatar?”

“I am fine,” the Maia replied, somewhat throatily, before quickly swallowing down a large mouthful of cider. A sheen of bubbly liquid stuck upon his lips, and for one sickening moment it looked as if his mouth were slicked in bile as he continued, “Do not concern yourself with me. This day has been… full of labour, both in body and in will. Yet it has brought its triumphs. It seems almost an age since the sun has risen…”

“You press yourself too hard,” Celebrimbor said concernedly, for truly Annatar’s scattered trail of speech perturbed him. “Take some rest if you need it.”

“I am fine,” came the distant reply.

“Come,” Celebrimbor tutted, and a more playful tone lilted in his voice as he teased, “What shall my people say of me as a host, then? That I run my guests ragged, flaying their knowledge and skills from them as if they were but slaves to pleasure me?”

The elf scoffed derisively, but a supercilious smile curved over Annatar’s lips. He yawned widely upon the couch before leaning over to refresh his glass of cider, and he lifted it up before him to idly appraise it as he steered the conversation elsewhere. 

“Of late I have noticed a trend among the younger apprentices,” he remarked casually, swirling the cider within his cup and watching as the little bubbles burst and fizzed before him. “They wear a remarkable array of adornments about their ears, both _neri_ and _nissi_ alike. Studs, cuffs, rings, and others of stranger make. Is it a custom among your people to adorn yourselves thusly?”

“What? Oh – “ Of instinct Celebrimbor’s hand flew to his ear, where several elegant rings were pierced through his helix alike to those which Annatar had described. The Maia watched his movement curiously, and with a sigh Celebrimbor arose, milling about his desk and settling himself upon a couch laid perpendicular to Annatar’s about the table, and helping himself to the cider in turn. “Well,” he continued, “it is not a custom, per se. Perhaps you might consider it more of a fashion? The waxing and waning of trends…”

Annatar looked quizzically at him, and self-consciously Celebrimbor fiddled with the rings in his ears. “Do you… do you not do alike in Aman?”

“It is not a common thing among my kindred, no,” Annatar replied. “I merely wondered…” The ghost of a smile touched his lips, but the simmer in his eyes belied more than the simple friendship that his words wove. “Such fashions suit you well, my – “ Hastily Annatar caught himself; Celebrimbor was not quite sure whether he was disappointed or delighted by it, and smoothly he continued, “ _Tyelpë._ They are most handsome piercings.”

At the sound of his name emphasised so carefully over Annatar’s lips, a shiver of most definite pleasure slid down Celebrimbor’s spine, but desperately he tried to hold on to composure as he murmured, “Thank you.”

But that look, that damnably, innocently seductive look in Annatar’s eyes drew the words from him, like slippery eels they were hauled over his lips before he could quite restrain them. “They would suit you too, I think. Maybe… I mean, if…” 

The stumble in his voice was cringe-worthy even to himself, but graciously Annatar smiled, and with an air of such devastating nonchalance he dug his hooks in just a little bit deeper. 

“You flatter me, my lord,” he replied, his voice soft and low. “But I could never hope to compare.”

A blush mottled over Celebrimbor’s cheeks, and abashedly he buried his face in his cup. He fiddled again with the rings in his ears as the silence between them stretched on Annatar was quite happy to leave it there to curdle, until at last the elf muttered, “My father made them for me, when I was young.”

“Then he was a skilled smith himself,” Annatar said, yet as he spoke a strangely resentful look came over Celebrimbor’s countenance. “They are kingly gifts.” 

A long silence seeped through the room, a silence filled with only venom, until bitterly Celebrimbor said, “My father was no king.”

A frown crossed Annatar’s brows, he raised himself up and twisted about on the couch to face Celebrimbor more easily, and into the well of acrimony that he had quite unintentionally stumbled across he delved cautiously. “You speak as ones estranged.”

“Did you ever meet him?” Celebrimbor snapped, and something terribly close to desperation quavered in his voice. “He used to frequent Aulë’s halls, with my grandfather. Long, long ago…”

“I did not have the pleasure.”

“Then you cannot know truly of what I speak. He was…” Words failed him, an angry spasm quirked over his lips, it felt like someone had sewn his throat shut with wire, and his knuckles grew white and bloodless as his fingers clenched about his glass. 

But sagely Annatar nodded, something about him seemed for a moment to mellow, and a wince of genuine sympathy curled at the corners of his smile. “Yet still you love him.”  

“My father was a difficult person to love,” Celebrimbor spat, and he glared down into the frothy remnants of his cider.

The quiet between them became slowly biting, but into it Annatar finally murmured, “He treated you cruelly?” 

“No,” the elf sighed, “No. It’s not that. Well… no. Insofar as, he never struck me. He was not hurtful, not physically, though his tempers were… frightening. But perhaps it was his disappointment that was the cruellest.” 

“In what way would you have disappointed him? Many skills you possess, and in many traits you are admirable and strong.” 

“I was not always as I am now,” Celebrimbor pronounced bitterly, and his gaze wandered to the cold night skies framed above his balcony as he spoke. “In my youth I was different. More wilful, perhaps, stubborn. Spiteful, even, I have heard it said... 

Expectations were laid before me, but I wished not to be so rigidly bound by them. My father demanded excellence, rigour, in things that he deemed proper for a prince of the royal house to be educated in, to the exclusion of all else. I was supposed to be his heir, his prodigy, the silver-handed scion of the great Fëanáro come again to Arda, and I… I wished to have no part in it.

I did what was expected of me, many things I wrought and I made, for a talent in smithcraft was impressed, nay, _enforced_ upon me. But ever I did so with dispassion. Ever my father was frustrated with me. It was a waste, he said, a bloodline squandered, a legacy despoiled…” 

Celebrimbor’s lip curled, and sorrowfully, hatefully he continued, “There was this look in his eyes, and I knew that I had failed him. I would learn of all manners of ancient lore from the great scholars of Tirion, I would commit it to memory or when I was older I would publish it anew, and when I spoke to him of it he would merely nod and smile blandly. I would ride with my uncle in his hunts, I would bring down the prize stag with my own arrow and my father would turn away in disgust. Ever as I pursued my own interests, as I achieved my own purposes, it was drowned in the weight of his _failure_.”

A chill breeze rustled through the room, deeply Celebrimbor inhaled, and at last Annatar murmured, “I am sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.” 

“I only meant – “ 

“I do not want your sympathy,” Celebrimbor said sharply. “I do not want your _condescension_. Failure ill becomes me, I have little patience for it and I entertain it not. Perhaps my father has shaped me for better in the end, or perhaps not, but that is a matter aside. I have exceeded his expectations of me. I have led my people through a cataclysm of his creation. I have forged this realm alone, I have given them a sanctuary from the perils of the world and I have made it prosperous. By my own hand, by _my_ will alone this was achieved, and I will suffer no sycophantic smiles for my efforts.” 

“My lord,” Annatar intoned, and a sudden spiral of hope bored through Celebrimbor’s heart as the Maia inclined his head respectfully. No trace of disdain marred him, no soft sorrow moved him; evenly he met Celebrimbor’s stare as he raised his head, and for that Celebrimbor was grateful. A strange tension lingered between them for a moment, before wearily Celebrimbor sighed, he ran a hand through his hair and a short, rueful laugh jumped to his throat. 

“I have not spoken of such matters for years,” he began slowly. “They are heavy counsels…” 

“Then I thank you, my lord,” Annatar replied, and searchingly Celebrimbor looked to him. “For deeming me worthy to bear them.” 

 At that Celebrimbor did not know whether to smile or to silently grieve, and for a while he did not respond. Yet after a few minutes of tender silence between them, at last he murmured, “Are you truly a friend, Annatar?”

It was almost painful to smile back, to affix a mellow grin across his face when so desperately he longed to tear it off, to assume himself, declare himself, take this whining elf lord and dash him bloodied across the stones. But stoically he pushed aside such temptations, though he had cast his net he was far yet from reeling it in, and into the glamour that shimmered about him he pushed every ounce of earnestness and false, lingering supplication that he could. 

To one knee upon the floor he twisted himself, a hint of enchantment played upon his lips as he took Celebrimbor’s hand within his own, as he raised it up and kissed him softly upon the knuckles. 

“In all things, my lord,” he said quietly, demurely, and the words poured like silver over his tongue. “In all things I am your friend.”   

Fluidly then he stood, he swiftly bade his goodnight and exited the lord’s chambers, leaving nothing but silence in his wake, and Celebrimbor staring hungrily after him.

 

* * *

_A huge thank you to everyone who has been so kind and encouraging about this series so far, and I sincerely hope the second chapter lived up to expectations. Until next time, my lovelies. theeventualwinner x_

 


	3. Gula

_“You are mine, little one.”_

His master’s voice is so devastatingly tender; it sends a dark swell of desire rolling up through him. And how he gasps in delight as his master kisses him, he sends a mewling cry of pleasure pouring down his master’s throat as so slowly his master pushes him down upon the bed, as he parts his thighs, raises his hips, as with such exquisite care his master enters him. So hotly, so slickly his master’s stomach presses up against his own, so powerfully his master holds him down as his back arcs into that sensation. 

Ashen hands grip about his wrists; a bleating, panting series of whimpers ripple over his lips as he feels his master withdraw, and so gently, so lovingly then he feels his master push back into him.

Deeply his master kisses him, languidly he rolls his hips, and every nerve in him shrieks out its ecstasy with each new contact. His cheeks flush pink as his master builds his rhythm, his fingers clench into desperate, trembling fists about the sheets as those wondrous sensations swirl and meld and stoke within him, and through the lingering press of their lips he can feel his master smile.

Tenderly, fiercely, their lips part; a jagged moan of arousal scorches up his throat as his master’s mouth wanders, as a simmering constellation of biting, nipping little kisses trails down over his jaw, runs down the side of his neck.    

 _“You are mine,”_ his master breathes, with one fluid roll of his hips pressing yet harder up inside of him, and the filthy groan of pleasure that erupts then from his throat could have brought the mountains toppling down around him in their shame. His master’s thrusts rock him into the bed, every flex of muscle only pushes him down further, deeper, harder, faster, and into that sordid well of sensation he simply melts. 

His eyes flicker shut in his rapture; his master’s breath tingles over his neck, over his lips, every buck and coil of his hips sends such seething delight coursing up through him. 

“ _Mairon,”_ his master croons, over and over again his name pours from his master’s lips, slick and deep and low and visceral, and with each utterance such happiness, such completeness flows through him. His master is here, his master is his, in all of his sweetness and all of his pain he is _his_ , and a moan of adoration tumbles from him as once more his master breathes his name. 

But slowly his master’s voice changes, some subtle quality in it shifts, hot and torrid still it is but it becomes tinged with something else, something strange. And between his thighs his master’s rhythm falters, it slips and regains itself but somehow then it is made different.

“ _Mairon,”_ his master pants, and something dreadful now sounds in his voice, something _vile_ , and so desperately he wishes to claw it from him, to recoil, to mend what has been done. And gradually each thrust up inside of him becomes painful, loving still but sharp, gutting and wrong and hurting. “ _Mairon, please. We don’t have much time…”_

“No,” he moans, pain sends the word leaching from his lips, and as he squirms his master’s fingers become biting upon him, they close like manacles about his wrists. “No, stop…” 

A spray of dust comes shivering down from the ceiling; it veils his master in a deathly shroud of grey. And below him the bed, the stone, the earth, it all groans, it seethes and rends and tears in its agony, and as he feels its convulsions he rides them, he snatches their momentum to try to push his master from him. Every muscle in him trembles with the effort of it as he writhes; his shoulders lift from the sheets only a few inches before his master slams him back down, and the dull impact of flesh upon stone knocks the breath from his lungs. 

“Stop…” he gasps, he pleads, as the ache of that force seeps through him, deadens him, immobilises him but for the scrape of his back across the bench with each agonising thrust up inside of him. 

“ _It is too late.”_

His master’s voice is horrifying, thin and torn and warped, and with every ounce of failing strength left to him he tries to pull away as his master rams into him, as his master hurts him. Every instinct in him screams at him to move, but he can’t, he just can’t, he can only lie there paralysed as the dust comes shaking down, as the screams flicker through his ears, as the bellows and horn-calls and that chilling, awful _scratching_ fills the chamber. He can only lie there on that cold stone bench and be split apart.

“S-stop…” he sobs, the tears fall hot and stinging down his cheeks as he lies there pinned, as he lies there aching, as his master’s every grating move against him brings only soreness, as every slam up inside of him is a violation, an abuse. And the screeches only come louder, the horns blare out their triumph as he starts to bleed, the door buckles under their fury, it rips from its hinges and he _screams_ as his master comes inside of him, as it tears him apart… 

 

* * *

                                                               

The candles dotted about Annatar’s bedchamber burst into incandescent little gledes of flame as the Maia’s eyes jolted open, as the breath caught in his throat, as he scrabbled up into a sitting position amid the tangled sheets. The cool night air seemed sticky upon his skin, he pressed a hand tenderly to his lower stomach and he winced at the soreness that he found there as the last reverberations of that dream, that awful, cloying dream, quivered through him.

He exhaled one slow breath; gently he unclasped his hand from his stomach, and as the ache gradually began to dissipate from him he settled himself more comfortably against his pillows. The scrambling horror of his mind slowly smoothed over into serenity, the talons of the dream grew blunted, and more sagely then he glanced about his bedchamber.

The moon shone through the gauzy curtains that were draped over the arched doorframe that led out to his balcony; it hung like a smudged, silvery orb upon the fabric that rippled in the cool night breeze. For a while he sat still in his bed, emptily he gazed upon its ephemeral form, and a sudden shiver of loneliness clawed through his heart. 

The city was too quiet at night, he thought. The wind moaned over Eregion’s high fells; it snatched up what sounds of quiet industry or goodly chatter that might prevail and it dashed them to the merciless rocks. It shredded what impious noises might dare to challenge the silent night, and it sent a chill through Annatar’s heart. These lands were no ally to him, he thought sadly. This city would never be his home.

His home had been taken from him.

His lip curled sourly, his gentle gaze out towards the moon curdled into a scowl, and a familiar glow of anger kindled in his stomach. Long ago it had been, but it might well have been yesterday for all the solace that time had brought him. For the Noldor in their arrogance, in their selfishness, in their bloodstained pretences of divinity had marched upon him that final, ruinous time. Their piteous whining, their slaughters and their tantrums had finally moved the idle Valar to act, to make unjust, hypocritical war upon him and his people, to raze from them their kingdom and cast them broken and mangled to the cruel claws of the world. 

These elves, Annatar thought bitterly, they seek only to possess, to devour in their greed. 

Fitting then, he smirked thinly, and the candles about the room crackled with his wrath. He would reap what hateful seeds that so long ago they had sown. He would scythe through them until their entrails bloodied their grand houses, until the streets ran foul with charnel, until –

A strange noise from the balcony yanked him from such thoughts, and quickly he roused himself from his bed, casting aside the gauzy curtains until he stepped fully into the outdoors. The stone was icy under his feet, the breeze lapped at his loose bed-trousers, and he crossed his arms over his bare chest as he frowned out towards the distant horizon and the red streaks of the coming dawn. 

Yet as he glanced about he could discern no source of that noise, and he was almost about to retreat back into the warmth of his bed when a slight scuffle sounded from somewhere above him. Instantly he whirled, his eyes darted upwards, and came to an unexpected lock upon the beady gaze of a plump raven that perched atop the shingles of his roof.

He sighed then in relief, yet no small amount of puzzlement raced through his mind, and he leaned back upon the balcony’s railing as the bird swiftly took flight, arcing about in a wide circle above his head before fluttering to stand upon the railing beside him. Curiously it gazed at him, its inky eyes examined him until with a very contented looking wriggle it shook itself, stretching and re-folding its glossy wings as it stepped tentatively towards his arm.

“You are a long way from home,” Annatar murmured, looking down at the raven with something akin to fondness in his eyes. Not all birds were loyal to the Windlord, that he had learned in ages long past. For amid his shadowy halls carrion birds of all sorts were like to roost, they had scoured the skies above the mountains and plucked from them the Valar’s spying eyes. Some subtle scavengers had dared even the nests of the Eagles themselves, the cunning _corvidae_ would snatch up eggs and crack them open to feast upon their innards. Upon wings dark and swift messages between the strongholds of the North had been passed, and beside him now the raven _tokked._ Its head tilted as it gazed up at him, and it shuffled a little closer, its long talons tapping upon the railing as it walked.

The bird nudged gently at his arm with its beak, and a strange chittering sound clattered out of its throat. Almost reproachfully it stared up at him, and wearily then Annatar sighed.

“Soon, youngling,” he murmured, outstretching his hand to allow the raven to perch upon it. Eagerly the bird stepped to him, it preened itself proudly as he turned to lean facing the horizon, and its feathered chest puffed out like some glorified little general as he spoke to it.

“Soon,” he said, and his eyes glimmered red in the glare of the dawn as he promised it. “Our time will come again, and we will be as kings in these lands, as warlords of blood and marrow and revelry.” 

The raven’s eyes gleamed, it cawed a triumphant little _tok_ into the air, and at it Annatar smiled.

“Now,” he said, “you are a clever one indeed, if clad even in this form you have recognised me. You wish to be of service to me? Then gratefully I will command you. Gather your brethren, sweetling. Take flight now, and from the far corners of Ëa bring those who are yet faithful. Bring those who will hearken to their lord’s command, and slake your beak in the blood of those who will not.”

The raven’s claws dug little furrows into Annatar’s hand, and so deliciously that sting served to move him, it served to guide him in his treacheries. For before him the raven inclined its noble head, and eagerly it turned to the lightening skies. 

“Go now, youngling,” Annatar said sternly. “May the shadows serve to speed your wings. For to you this now I swear. Soon we will be glutted. Our enemies will pay for what they have stolen from us.” 

From his hand the raven leapt, its proud wings unfurled and caught upon the breeze, and with a caw it sped away east, his grand little vassal set abroad in all the perils of the land. Gladly Annatar watched it go, and silently he bade it luck.

Slowly then he wandered back to his bedchamber and began preparing from the day, though the hour yet seemed cruelly early. The Council of Ost-in-Edhil was called for a meeting, fortunately freeing him from Celebrimbor’s clutches for the day. His other projects and consultations amid the Gwaith-i-Mírdain could hold for a while, he mused, arranging himself before a tall mirror set into the corner of the room and running a comb through his slightly sleep-mussed hair. Perhaps it was time to uncover what other amusements the court of Eregion might hold. 

 

* * *

 

An arrow thudded into a man-shaped dummy at the furthest end of the archery range, sending a small puff of straw dust billowing into the air with the impact. Annatar squinted balefully after his arrow, appraising its heron-feather fletching left quivering in the dummy’s chest. It had been extremely pleasant to discover that even after centuries of disuse his skills were not far diminished from the days of his might, yet these Elven arrows fitted oddly to his string. 

His own bow he had brought with him out of the deepest foundations of Lugbúrz as its slow construction continued in his absence: a splendid recurved weapon with slender arms of polished yew wood, and a core fashioned of the ivory tusk of a colossal _mûmak_ slain in the deserts of Far Harad, its head gifted to him by the chieftain of those lands in tribute. The kingly weapon then he kept strung with dark horsehair, and it had served him well upon his long journey west. Yet his arrows had been depleted amid the wilds, and from the store-master of Celebrimbor’s armoury he had borrowed a fresh quiver some weeks before.

Slowly he plucked up another arrow and nocked it to his string, rolling out his shoulders as he sighted for the dull ink-mark that denoted the target’s sternum. Fluidly he aimed and drew, the bow hummed with pressure in his hand as the arrow scudded through the air and embedded itself with a satisfying crunch into the dummy. A fair shot, he judged it, yet imperfect. These arrows seemed almost to squirm against him, they shuddered and quailed as they were set to his string, and it was only with a concentrated effort of will that he could master them and send them soaring true.

The pallid sunshine limned his bare arms in its radiance, his customarily rich attire cast aside for the freedom of movement that a sleeveless jerkin might provide, and he reached for another arrow. As he nocked it, faintly he was aware of footsteps descending the marble stairs to the shooting galley, but he paid little attention to them. His eyes narrowed, the gold in them gleamed as he found his mark, his string drawn and the pressure left coiling through the muscles of his right arm as for a moment he held.

“What are you doing?”

The unmistakeable tone of Celebrimbor’s voice sounded from behind him, yet the elf’s words seemed strangely ephemeral; they scarcely served to distract him as he focused his will upon the arrow.

“Practising.”

With a victorious grimace he let the arrow fly. It buried itself with an immensely satisfying thud into the dummy’s straw head, clean through the ink mark that denoted an eye socket.

A gleeful, sadistic light seemed to blaze for a moment in Annatar’s eyes as he turned towards the elf lord, yet quickly it was smoothed away into friendly regard as readily Celebrimbor smiled at him. 

“You have no mean skill with a bow,” the elf remarked, his gaze shifting to the numerous arrow-shafts that punctured the unfortunate dummy. 

“Thank you, my lord,” Annatar replied softly, and almost coyly he glanced down at the bow in his hands. “I have always enjoyed hunting, when my work would grant me leisure. For it is such a thrill, is it not? To chase, to pursue… To outwit. Many creatures we would hunt, the fleet and the swift. The _arrogant_ …” 

“What?” Celebrimbor’s voice sharpened at that last, rather disconcerting, turn of phrase, but Annatar smiled at him with such genial pleasantry that quickly he was soothed. 

“I jest,” the Maia purred. “For whom has not hunted the stag who thought himself uncatchable, the boar who thought himself indestructible? They learn of their folly in the end, as do we all." 

A thin smile quirked at Celebrimbor’s lips, he was not entirely sure that Annatar’s words were all that they superficially seemed, but as if sensing his dissonance Annatar stepped forward brightly.

“Would you care for a try?” he asked, his magnificent bow proffered in his hand. 

“Nay,” Celebrimbor said affably, shrugging down at himself and the heavy, billowing robes that garbed him. “I am hardly attired for sport. Continue, I bid you. I would see what you can do.” 

Readily enough Annatar turned, taking up a fresh arrow and raising his bow. Yet even as he drew he could sense the lord’s gaze lingering uncomfortably across him. Far too greedily did it rest upon the play of the corded muscles in his arms, upon the curve of his hips as he twisted, and it took all of his concentration to bite down the disgust that came clambering up his throat. 

Swiftly then he loosed, the arrow flew, and embedded itself at a slightly crooked angle through the dummy’s stomach. Annatar tutted in vague dissatisfaction; a serviceable shot, yet hardly elegant, but behind him he heard Celebrimbor scoff.

“A shame,” the lord said teasingly. “Perhaps you are not as good as you think you are.”

Irritation glowed in Annatar’s stomach, slighted pride scratched beneath his skin, and almost without thinking he whirled about, he grabbed an arrow and nocked it, with a vicious growl sending it whizzing through the air not a millimetre’s breadth from Celebrimbor’s ear.

“Am I not?”

The percussion of the arrow’s passing seemed to graze across Celebrimbor’s skin, for a moment utter shock gripped him and it rendered him speechless. Yet swiftly that paralysing surprise faded from him, a rather unlordly splutter of affront burst over his lips, but with it some sordid skewer of delight punched through his stomach. 

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, and at such an unexpectedly crude word to come tumbling over his lips Annatar’s grin widened. “Fuck… Annatar, you - … What - what sort of a game do you think you are playing at?” 

“An amusing one.” 

The Maia’s eyes glittered, yet for the roguish charm of his voice Celebrimbor felt his throat begin to tighten, he felt the familiar flush of arousal prickle through him, and desperately he tried to squash it back down. 

“What… what if you had missed?” he said shrilly, a look of such delightful outrage plastered over his face as his hand instinctively came up to rub at his cheek, to run in self-reassurance over the intact helix of his ear.   

“I did not, my lord,” Annatar replied evenly, before turning to nock another arrow and send it flying towards the dummy, spearing it through the throat. 

“But what if you had?” he insisted, but even to himself now his words sounded forced as his initial furore began to drain away. 

With one arched eyebrow Annatar turned back to him, such innocent mischief glistened in his smile as he drawled, “Then I would be apologising profusely, my lord. Yet as the matter stands…”

Celebrimbor scoffed as haughtily as he could, he drew himself up to his full height and imperiously he looked down upon the Maia. Yet for all of his inflations of grandeur with a glance Annatar undid him; what resentful words he might have snapped withered in his throat, they sank into the simmering pit of desire that bubbled within his stomach. So golden Annatar was, so pure; so fey and fickle and infuriating and untouchable, so desperately Celebrimbor wanted to please him, and that confusing twist of emotion found him averting his eyes as the Maia met his too-overt stare.

“Well,” Celebrimbor eventually muttered, the words huffed into his collar. “No harm done, I suppose…”

“Of course not, my lord,” Annatar said smoothly, but elegantly he bowed. “I apologise if I have caused offense.”

“No, Annatar,” Celebrimbor sighed, and graciously he raised the Maia from his obeisance. “The fault was mine, my friend. I – I overreacted… Think no more upon it. Let no tensions mar the air between us. Now, if you might excuse me. The rapacious needs of my people beckon. We host a party of Gonnhirrim upon the turning of the week, and matters of relations must be seen to.” 

“An excellent occasion, my lord,” Annatar said, and the slight look of relief that moiled across his face sent Celebrimbor’s heart soaring. “I look forward to it.” 

For a slight, awkward moment Celebrimbor paused, eagerly he awaited what more might flow from the Maia’s lips, but as Annatar fell silent he swiftly caught himself. Amiably he nodded, he bade Annatar good day, and the tantalising smile with which the Maia treated him gnawed at his thoughts for far longer than might be deemed prudent. 

 

* * *

 

The coming of the Gonnhirrim, the Stone Lords, to Ost-in-Edhil’s grand halls was no less decadent than expected. Celebrimbor’s larders were laid bare; every manner of wine and mead and spiced liqueur was dragged up from the cellars, great haunches of beef and venison turned upon honeyed spits, platters of roasted pheasant and partridge were nestled atop the tables already groaning with breads, cakes and vegetables in a myriad array of dishes. No expense had been spared in providing the most sumptuous of banquets to host the Hadhodrim, for to cause offense or discomfort in the least to Ost-in-Edhil’s chief trading partners would have been an grievous slight, and an intolerable failing of diplomacy. 

Therefore the hall was bedecked in kingly splendour that hearkened even to the days of Tirion in its grandeur. Great silk and velvet banners hung down from the ceiling; they were blazoned across the walls. Silver stars shone alongside the crossed hammers of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and alongside them in brocades of richest crimson and gold were embroidered the sigils of the lords of Moria; the one-eyed boar, the carven diamond, the three axes, the knotted _wyrm_ , and many more besides in majesty beyond count. 

Laid lengthwise across the high dais, the lords’ table commanded the room, and from its wide expanse the most honoured of Celebrimbor’s guests had survey of the floor, where the lesser nobles and courtiers mingled in a lively, merry confluence. Upon a chair of burnished brass and plush ebony velvet Celebrimbor sat, his brow bound in a royal circlet of gold. Delicate strands of the metal dripped elegantly through his sleek hair, and a great ruby rested upon his forehead, its polished facets glimmering richly in the light as he talked amongst his guests. In dark, flowing robes of fur and silk he was arraigned, and animatedly he spoke with the noble Hadhodrim who sat upon his right; stout lords with their long beards most opulently braided, teased with ribbons of gold and glistening _mithril,_ and laughter and wine flowed warmly between them.

Upon Celebrimbor’s left Annatar sat, dressed no less finely in elegant robes of gold and cream, and coolly the Maia’s eyes skated over the hall as he took a thoughtful sip of wine from his goblet. The Gonnhirrim were a strange people, he had swiftly decided, brusque and loud and raucous if his infrequent dealings with Narvi had taught him anything, but warm and fast in friendship, and in this city they displayed a readiness for talk and fair trade with the Quendi that he had long thought simply impossible. Never had he given them much thought in his designs, save for passing recognition of their existence, and faintly now he wondered if he had not committed a minor oversight. Never had the Hadhodrim sworn allegiance to him or to his master in the ages now lost, but they had only openly opposed him when foolish alliances with the Noldor had dragged them from their caves. 

Perhaps, he thought, he should extend the invitation. 

The Gonnhirrim guarded their secrets close, they turned their faces from the sky and opened their hearts to the earth, to its spoils; its metal and its gems and all of the beauty and wealth that such things could produce, and to that motive he could not profess himself to be unsympathetic. Yet for that idle observation, oh how he had exulted as a rumour had snatched past him earlier. The dwarrow lords muttered of dark things in the mountains, of wolves, of beasts, of omens; of prospecting parties who did not return from their ventures, of a pall of blood in their sacred Mirrormere.

With an air of sorrow he had listened, he had nodded compassionately at such grave news, and it was all that he could do to keep the triumphant smirk from his face.

His servants, it appeared, had not been idle.  

Yet from him now the conversations had turned; Celebrimbor was engaged enthusiastically with the lords upon his right, and though he glimpsed several other members of the council about the high table or scattered amid the hall, none looked to him for company. So for a while he simply contented himself to sit, but soon enough he found himself sighing down into his goblet.

“You do not like?”

A strongly accented voice sounded upon his left, and blinking in surprise he turned to acknowledge the heretofore silent dwarf who was seated next to him. Bright almond eyes stared up at him from beneath a geometric circlet of gold upon its brow, rosy cheeks were flushed merrily with heat and wine above a short beard braided into two elegant prongs at the chin, and the dwarf stared pointedly up at him. “You do not like?” 

For a moment Annatar paused, unsure of quite how to reply, but words slowly trickled to him. “I – “ 

“Ah, it is no matter,” the dwarf laughed over him, patting him merrily upon the arm as for a few perturbing moments he struggled for an appropriately decorous response. “Men-folk, my people, such grand feasts they like. But it does not please so well we of Durin’s daughters.” 

Sagely Annatar nodded, but an instant later his brow furrowed as the dwarf’s words truly sank in.

“Daughters?” he repeated incredulously, swallowing hard around the mouthful of wine that had caught in his throat in surprise.

Swiftly, surreptitiously, he glanced over the grinning dwarf, and beneath the swell of sumptuous velvets he fancied that he could discern a more womanly shape. Fancy or no, he told himself sternly, it would not do to be insulting among such company, and apologetically then he smiled. “I am most terribly sorry, my lady. I did not realise…” 

“No,” she chuckled, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “You fey-folk never do.”

For a moment Annatar was silent, some grievously bewildered look must have passed over his face as the dwarf stroked the braided tips of her beard, for most heartily then she laughed, and she said, “I am called Aldvís.”

“A pleasure,” Annatar purred, swiftly casting his puzzlement aside as the conversation tilted back towards normalcy. “I am named Annatar, my lady.” 

A roar of noise engulfed the hall for once brief moment, and where Annatar blinked in consternation at the sudden din, Aldvís remained quite unfazed. “You are smith, here?” 

“I am,” he replied, leaning in close as the percussion of that roar yet bounced about the walls. “And yourself?” 

“A smith also, yes,” she smiled, twisting about to present an ornate silver ring inset with a gleaming emerald upon her chubby forefinger. “Rings like this I make, for my lord Durin under the mountain. I am…” Here Aldvís’ voice faltered, her face pinched as she sought for the word in the Sindarin tongue, and at her Annatar smiled encouragingly. “I am… _captain_ of his ring-makers. This how you say, yes?” 

“You would be the _chieftainess_ ,” Annatar proclaimed, and Aldvís giggled as he took her hand gracefully within his own, as he planted one cheeky kiss upon the great ring on her finger. “The ring is exquisite, my lady, yet not so fair as its maker.” 

Aldvís’ cheeks blushed an impressive shade of crimson at his words, and daintily she withdrew her hand, turning instead to take a cooling sip of wine. 

For a while then they spoke amicably, suddenly glad of each other’s company. Aldvís fondly told of the wonders of her realm; the subterranean gardens where the shale splintered and whirled into roses of petrified stone, the great fountains of spring-water delved from the living rock where her kindred would gather and be merry, the catacombs of stalactites that lurked in the darkness like the serrated teeth of some slumbering beast, and only the bravest of her kind dared those deadly shards of stone for the gemstones that seamed them. 

Where she faltered in language Annatar aided her, with genuine pleasure he listened to the adoration in her voice as she spoke of her home, yet a strange melancholy gradually clutched at his heart.

So suddenly, so bizarrely he wished that he could cast aside his illusions, his hollow inventions of himself. He would but once stem the lies that flowed over his tongue. He would tell her of the barren lands that he had come to love, in all of their ugliness and all of their splendour; the fiery plumes of Orodruin’s wrath, the cavernous depths of his mines beneath the Ephel Dúath, even the grey waves that lapped upon the shores of Núrnen in the south of his realm. She would like them, he thought sadly, for what greater marvels of geology existed in these lands, in these times?

Yet purpose bound him to his lies, coldly he sluiced such desires from him, and if his smile grew frosty as he spoke of his deeds within Celebrimbor’s halls then Aldvís did not seem to notice.  

The hours rolled by, the hall swelled with merriment, until as the sun was dipping below the horizon a quiet was at last called. A space before Celebrimbor’s chair was cleared upon the table, and a large, ornate chest was borne up the steps of the dais by four dwarves decked in shining livery, the kingly sigils of the Longbeards picked out in richest _mithril_ over their breastplates. Before Celebrimbor they laid the chest, then withdrew and bowed deeply in unison.

“A gift from the Lord Durin the Third,” one of them spoke in a gravelly tone, “King of the Khazâd, Lord of Moria, the Dwarrowdelf, and the realm of Khazad-dûm. In token of the friendship and trade between our peoples he presents to you, Lord Celebrimbor Curufinwion, these gifts; worthy heirlooms of our people and a symbol of allegiance in this age.”

At Celebrimbor’s gracious beckon the herald stepped forward, he lifted the lid from the chest, and all peered curiously towards its contents.

Upon a plush base of black velvet, four grand knives were arrayed in the shape of a star, their blades extended outwards, and even Annatar’s eyes widened as he beheld the skill of their craftsmanship. For each dagger was carved of a differently coloured stone, and together they formed a rich rainbow of colours upon the dark velvet. 

“Malachite, from the great foundries of Erebor, my lord,” the herald intoned, indicating the foremost knife that crowned the star; its blade of polished verdant stone swirled through with ribbons of black and fine threads of gold. 

“Azurite, from the last quarries of Belegost,” the herald continued, and Annatar’s gaze flicked to the handsome blade of cobalt blue stone before trailing onwards. The next blade shimmered with a strange iridescence; its surface crawled with a yellowish sheen of a sunflower’s hue, yet it seemed dusted with a glittering spray of silver. “Ammolite, from Moria,” the herald said, “and here red carnelian brought forth from the distant Orocarni Mountains and our kindred there.” 

A vibrant red blade completed the star, its blade smooth and bloody. Annatar leaned further forward to admire it, and as he did so his eyes caught also upon a neat line of obsidian arrowheads that dotted the bottom of the chest, which the herald then announced. All murmured appreciatively as they beheld the weapons, yet as the court settled themselves once more, Annatar heard the faintest huff of disapproval emanate from Aldvís’ nostrils. 

Celebrimbor nodded most courteously at such noble gifts, and richly he proclaimed, “You will send to King Durin my deepest of gratitude. For truly these are gifts beyond measure, and I shall keep them with pride in remembrance of our friendship.”

Before him the escort bowed low, and as they departed, the courtly chatter began anew. 

Celebrimbor dived back into conversation with the dwarf lords upon his right, and to Annatar’s left Aldvís reached sharply forward and took a long draught of wine from her cup. Her eyes narrowed as she looked over the arrowheads once more, her brows crossed into a frown, and quickly she clutched to Annatar’s hand.

He started slightly as her small fingers closed about his own, and as he leaned in towards her she muttered darkly, “These they should not give.” 

“Why so, my lady?” Annatar murmured, casting an airy smile about the room as a few curious eyes strayed towards their proximity. 

“They… they are not good to give. There is danger in them.”

“Danger?”

Aldvís’ fingers tightened upon Annatar’s hand, with repugnance she stared upon the arrowheads. “Deep they come from. In Khazad-dûm, in darkness. Too deep. We do not go there, but the foolish. Obsidian glass they find there, but other things too. Greasy flames that melt stone. Things that rumble, things that _roar_. I do not like them, Annatar. It is treachery.”

Deeply Aldvís sighed, and ponderously she continued, “There is shadow in the glass. There is flame. There is evil in the earth that birthed them. They are not good things to give.” 

“I see,” Annatar said smoothly, and hard he fought to muzzle the swell of excitement that rose in him. Shadow and flame, he thought, and oh how the possibility, slender though it was, elated him.

Not all had been destroyed in the cataclysm, some such as he had survived the scouring of their home and had been scattered, slinking back to his service in the later years or becoming wild and feral if they could not. Shadow and flame. It almost pained him to entertain the idea, yet the gravity of Aldvís’ words gave hint to their truth. If but one of that mighty race had lingered, if but one scion of the Valaraukar yet remained, if it could be made obedient, then what glorious terror might he yet sow.

But swiftly he stifled such ambition, he forced the sharp gleam in his eyes to fade, and amiably he turned back Aldvís.

“I thank you for your words, my lady,” he said, “yet I think that there is naught here now to fear. These halls are light enough, are they not? Some tiny shadow such as these might but tremble at their brightness.”

Aldvís’ lips pursed, she harrumphed loudly, but quickly her face cheered into a smile once more as Annatar made some flattering jest, and he steered the conversation elsewhere as the merry night rolled onwards.

 

* * *

 

The weeks turned, the Gonnhirrim stayed their welcome and provided their services, and in the wake of their departure Annatar resumed his works within the halls of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Still he would freely offer his advice in smithcraft to any that would ask, and for almost a month he laboured with Corannon to repair and modify their blast furnaces, through arcane spells and physical mechanics tinkering with small pieces of machinery to increase their temperatures almost dual-fold, and with such improvements Celebrimbor was delighted. 

New works they were able to see begun, alloys flowed through those furnaces that were not deemed possible to construct within their previous confines, and with the influx of such industry among their people both lord and Maia found themselves at leisure. For long hours they would talk together, strolling about the upper walls and quiet streets of the courtesan’s circle, or sit in friendly company under a leafy arbour of the gardens while languidly they worked; Annatar sketching new designs of rings and jewellery after the Dwarven fashions of which Aldvís had so fondly spoken, and Celebrimbor luxuriated in his company while fulfilling the many clerical duties of state.

Often they would ride together among Eregion’s winding game-trails, or out across the wild fells, and as he grew more familiar with the rugged lands Annatar would begin to take the lead. Over the windswept bracken he would spur them onwards, down narrow gullies filled with trickling streams and cascading waterfalls he would lead, whispering softly to the horses to ease them down the slippery slopes, and he would give his mount its head as it scented for home. He would thrill in its excitement as it galloped across the hillsides, as it pounded up the great winding road and back into the city, and only then would he trouble himself to check that the elf lord had kept apace with him.

One such afternoon, in the drear, clouded light they both clattered back into the stable-yard, Annatar a few paces ahead as Celebrimbor leapt down from his horse. The ring of the horse’s hooves against the cobbles drummed still in the elf lord's ears, his heart thudded in his chest as he lead the sweaty, excited creature indoors to the stables proper. It skittered next to him even as he laid a soothing hand upon it, blowing hard through its nostrils with the exertion of such a reckless gallop for home.   

An exhilarated grin curled over Celebrimbor’s face as he led the horse forward, through wind-raked, glowing cheeks he looked to Annatar who was lounging against his horse’s shoulder, gently stroking the lather from its neck as it steamed in the cool air. So poised he looked, so regal; it set emotions to stir in Celebrimbor’s stomach that for weeks he had tried to quieten, had tried to forget.

“Annatar,” he breathed, the cold air seemed to scorch through his lungs as deeply he inhaled, as one final spike of adrenaline punched through him. “That was… that was amazing! How did you…”

“I am glad that you could keep up,” the Maia purred, and at the honey in his voice such blistering arousal suddenly cramped through Celebrimbor’s stomach that it was all he could do not to flinch with the force of it. So lascivious were his eyes, so light was his smile, and a blush that had scarce little to do with exertion began to creep up Celebrimbor’s neck, it tinged the tips of his ears in rosy pink.

Hard he breathed, he scarcely noticed the groom that arrived and began to lead their horses away. He simply stared at the Maia in all of his aching, awful glory as he patted his horse upon its retreating rump.

A fond smile flickered over Annatar’s lips as he turned back to Celebrimbor. But for his softness, the tilt of his hips was so dangerously alluring, the slight sweaty cling of his breeches between his thighs as so sordidly entrancing, and as the Maia then turned to leave a flare of jealousy burst in Celebrimbor’s heart. That pivot upon his heel seemed just a bit too insolent, it was suddenly too much of a spurn, and hot, fierce desire blazed in Celebrimbor’s stomach. 

“Annatar, wait,” he said, he _commanded_ , and the slight curl upon Annatar’s lips as he swung back around set Celebrimbor ablaze as he glimpsed it. Yet perhaps in that moment those fires burned too brightly; something visceral that for so long he had fought to cage ripped up from his stomach, a predatory smirk unfurled across his face, and with feyness to match any impudent Maia he stepped forwards.

The spurs of his boots clicked like talons upon the cobblestones as he stalked towards Annatar, and at the caustic, unearthly look in his eyes the Maia took one uncertain pace backwards. But oh how that split second of doubt caught across Annatar’s face churned in Celebrimbor’s heart, it rushed through him with writhing, victorious flames. 

“Why do you recoil from me?” Celebrimbor growled. Something unhinged played in his voice, some terrible sheen of madness swum in his eyes as he forced Annatar back a pace, as in some perverse, creeping waltz he danced Annatar across the stable block’s width with nothing but naked hunger in his gaze. 

Annatar’s back pressed uncomfortably up against a wooden stall, and though a grimace of displeasure flitted over his face, desperately he reined in the power that surged to his defence. It sparked upon his fingertips, it longed to be unleashed, to stop this, to end this, to make this elf bleed at his feet for ever thinking, for ever _dreaming_ in his arrogance that he could possess him, command him, threaten him.

But with every ounce of his willpower he quelled that impulse, and bitterly he clung to the air of fragile, innocent passivity that he wove about himself.

He steeled himself as the elf closed upon him, his hands clenched into trembling fists at his sides as the elf’s knee pushed in between his thighs, as Celebrimbor leaned into him with such ugly yearning in his eyes.

“I only wish to… to talk,” the elf murmured, the words rolling almost drunkenly from his lips. A little harder he pressed into Annatar, near crushing their hips together with his bulk.

“So talk.”

The Maia’s voice was smooth, but cold was his tone, and haughty his gaze. His golden eyes were filled with nothing but revulsion.

“You…” Celebrimbor breathed. The air seemed almost viscous over his lips, Annatar’s proximity seemed to only stoke that pounding desire within him, and before the Maia he dipped his head, his gaze slipping to the sweat-sheened muscles that cleft his throat, the curves of his pectorals beneath his shirt.

Slowly Celebrimbor’s hand came up, his fingers trailed lightly over Annatar’s thigh, and beneath his touch the Maia flinched away.

Such unspeakable disgust burned in Annatar’s stomach, his knuckles shone white and bloodless with the effort of tolerating the elf’s hands upon him, as he frantically bit back the black words of power that would leave the elf gutted and broken and gasping on the floor. But to Celebrimbor it seemed only a coy reflex, the flicker in Annatar’s smile seemed only fleeting shyness, and more firmly he pressed into him, his fingers stroking over the curve of his hip, over the slant of muscles that played beneath his shirt. 

“You are infectious,” the lord whispered, heavily, headily, pressing himself forward to croon the words into Annatar’s ear. And how Annatar shivered beneath him, and as his fingers tightened about the Maia’s waist Annatar leaned forward in turn, pushing their lips together until there was but a shiver of space left between them.

“ _You are infected_ ,” Annatar hissed, and a sudden swirl of nausea twisted in Celebrimbor’s gut. His head for a moment seemed to swim as Annatar withdrew from him, as Annatar pushed him away, and such scorned, bitter, hateful fury erupted within him a split second later. 

For how _dare_ Annatar refuse him?

 _He_ was Annatar’s benefactor, _he_ had welcomed him into this city where others would have spurned him, _he_ had gilded his path to the highest echelons of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, he had taken the Maia’s aid and seen him glorified for it, and how _dare_ such generosity be refused.

He was Annatar’s lord, he was his master; Annatar should revere him, love him, obey him; he should be down on his knees begging for his touch, for his caress, he should be between his thighs with his pretty lips around his cock savouring every last moment of his attention…

A flare of lust scourged up through Celebrimbor’s stomach, he near growled with the force of it, but in Annatar’s eyes now there was nothing but disdain, and oh how deeply they cut. 

Sense crashed back into Celebrimbor’s mind like a warhammer, it drenched him in its chill, it seized the ravenous torrent of his thoughts and it stripped them from him, it dissolved them and crumpled them and shattered them in its impact. An acrid taste sizzled upon his tongue, his lungs seemed to suddenly unlock within his chest, and with what seemed like the first time in an age he blinked with clarity. He felt that terrible, fey mood pass and he was left with only himself. 

And what shock, what awful, strangling regret smashed through him then as he beheld Annatar just standing there against the wall.

For the Maia, his ally, his _friend_ looked at him with horror in his eyes. Crowned in innocence Annatar seemed, lovely and pure and fragile, and he had defiled it, betrayed it. The look of such subtle confusion, such childlike upset that crept into the Maia’s golden eyes almost clove Celebrimbor’s heart in two.

“Annatar,” he whispered, his hands clenched at his sides with the vehemence of his apology, but at the poorly concealed expression of fright that marred Annatar’s beautiful face quickly he softened, and such sorrowful regret bled through his innards. “Annatar, I’m sorry… I – I didn’t mean…” 

“There is nothing to forgive, my lord,” the Maia murmured, but the words sounded hollow in his throat. Desperately, apologetically, almost blinking back tears of self-loathing Celebrimbor stepped towards him, but the flinch that rocked through Annatar’s body brought him up short. For almost imperceptibly the Maia shifted away from him, his arms cinched in to cover himself, and with that tiny, horrifying motion Celebrimbor felt like someone had kicked him clean in the stomach.

“Annatar,” he plead, he took one pacifying step backwards even as the words latched into his throat, horror hooked them there and guilt bound them tight. “Annatar, please. Please, I’m sorry… I didn’t… I didn’t mean to touch you like that, I didn’t… I don’t know what came over me. I don’t know what – what _possessed_ me. Please, Annatar, _please_ , I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Indecision wavered over Annatar’s features, and imploringly Celebrimbor looked to him. But perhaps in that moment the damage was already done, such blind, rash actions could not be revoked, for with downcast eyes Annatar mumbled, “Please, my lord, I… I think I need to be alone for a little while.”

“No!” A sharp spike of jealousy, of possessiveness, of cruelty, stabbed through Celebrimbor’s stomach, and even as the word burst over his lips he froze in horror. Desperately he tamed the craving that ached in his heart, the violence that roiled just beneath it, and softly he continued, “Please, Annatar, please don’t go. Not like this, not… I didn’t mean it. I _didn’t_. I’m sorry…” 

Yet for his pleading, the Maia regarded him with injured eyes, and without another word he departed, swiftly rounding a corner and vanishing. 

Alone Annatar left Celebrimbor among the empty stalls, and so fervently he hoped that the elf lord was hurting. As he stalked past the tack rooms and farrier’s workshops, balefully Annatar wondered if emotions could somehow become tangible, if he could take this elf’s ruinous ambitions and his guilt and his lust and his pride and somehow weave them all together. Some dark, choking thing he could form and ram it down the elf’s throat, watch him writhe, watch him suffocate; some sharp blade he could weld and with it peel him apart, leave him opened and glistening; screaming, begging.

Yet curtly he dismissed such fantasies. Even should it be possible then such overt and malevolent puissance here would see him unveiled. A shame, he thought. The metaphor would for now have to suffice.

Into the grey light of the afternoon he emerged, and fondly he thought of the bath within his chambers, of washing the stain of the elf’s touch from his skin. Though, he reminded himself, abhorrent as it was, such things must be endured. This was a game of his own making, and it would be difficult now to change the rules even if he so desired. Nay, sooner or later he would accept the elf’s apology, he would brush it aside and continue on with his deceptions, until with the crawl of the weeks their fencing about each other might begin afresh.

Let the elf grovel for a while, he fancied. It might even be amusing.

With that thought set aglow within him, far more contentedly he continued his walk back to the manor, through the sprawling gardens and to the gates that delineated the house proper. His hand brushed upon their grille as he made to step through them, yet as he made to proceed, from behind him there was a rustle amid the trees, a flutter of wings and the thin snap of wood. 

Slowly he turned, his eyes wandered upwards, and perched upon the upper branches of a nearby oak tree two ravens sat, staring down at him with their beady, enigmatic eyes. One cawed softly in its throat, it shuffled its wings in smug avian triumph, and Annatar grinned up at it in response. Its partner cawed then too; it cast an appraising eye over him before seemingly satisfying itself, and it puffed its chest up proudly before taking flight, wheeling once over the gates before retreating east towards the horizon. 

To the remaining raven he looked once more, his original messenger, his proud little general, and he inclined his head to it in thanks before slipping through the gates. And a few moments later, out over the spires of the house he caught a glimpse of the raven streaking away to the north-west, its black body passing like a dark shadow over the sun.

 

 

* * *

 _Thank you as usual to everyone who's been so supportive, and has kept reading this far! I really hope you enjoyed this little update (and its little veer into Angbang territory - what can I say? I am incorrigible :P Until next time, theeventualwinner x_  

 

 


	4. Acedia

“Annatar?”

It took three days for the elf to come limping to Annatar’s door: three long, withering days of caginess and forced smiles and unspoken resentments.

For the most part they had avoided each other. Annatar retreated into the depths of the blast furnaces alongside Corannon and Vëantor as they laboured upon further modifications to the machinery that might exponentially increase their heat capacities, and Celebrimbor was embroiled in some pressing matter of state or other, talking late into the night with Gilthariel or Iskandar upon matters of civil planning or the increased immigration of refugees into the city.

The nights were growing darker, so it seemed, and when the dawn came it bled across the horizon. In the hands of a young Telerin messenger, her sweeping hair braided within a net of serrated sharks-teeth and pearls, came the news that the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, along with their daughter and a goodly part of their retinue, were withdrawn to the realm of Lothlórien in the East, and many muttered at what such things might portend. Coolly Annatar had accepted the news, it pleased him if indeed it bothered him at all as he tinkered elbow deep within the bowels of a kiln, yet he heard unattractive rumours of Celebrimbor’s rage whispered through the halls of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and to them he subtly hearkened.

And now the elf lord came crawling back to him, crowned in such simpering repentance for his boldness in the stables those days before, and it was only with a conscious effort of will that Annatar suffered his presence. It was a necessary endurance, he told himself firmly, and upon his own terms the elf’s company was not _so_ hateful, he supposed. Sooner or later, it would draw to an end.

“Come in,” he called in response to the elf’s quiet request, and as he heard Celebrimbor’s footsteps pace through the outer rooms of his suite, he stretched himself upon the bedcovers where he languished. An antique book of Noldorin jewel-cutting designs was cracked open across his lap, a goblet of spiced wine he held curled elegantly between his fingers, and he quickly scanned the final few words upon the page before draining his goblet, and laying the book aside.

As Celebrimbor entered his bedchamber proper, Annatar stirred, with an almost painful reluctance he pulled himself up against his pillows into a slightly more formal sitting position.

“Don’t…” Celebrimbor murmured; the word fell awkwardly from his lips to clot at his feet. “Don’t trouble yourself…”

The elf lord wavered at the foot of the bed; his high-collared, regal attire was a poor mask for the discomfort that knotted through his shoulders. He stole a shameful glance at the Maia, at his _friend_ , before sighing heavily, and for one delicious moment Annatar let him squirm in his unease. If Celebrimbor had come to grovel, he thought, then let him do it well.

For in the preceding minutes Annatar had thickened the glamour that swum about him, he wove his subtle illusions until they shrouded him like a mournful veil. A wounded, melancholy air he affected to himself, he clasped it before him like a shield, and with wary reproachfulness he looked to Celebrimbor.

“How… how can I help you, my lord?” he began timidly, and as Celebrimbor took a step forward, almost imperceptibly he shrank back into the pillows, he flinched away from that motion as a frightened animal cowers from its abuser. And at the wince that crossed the elf’s face as he beheld that tiny, instinctive movement, a great slick of well-concealed glee spilled through Annatar’s stomach.

Towards the left of the bed Celebrimbor moved, one hand trailing absently over one of its carven posts, while in the other was held a small cloth parcel. For a moment then the elf paused, he looked down at Annatar, and his youthful face seemed somehow haggard. Such a look of longing and injury twined together in his gaze, it was so abjectly pathetic that for a moment Annatar almost did pity him, in a condescending, remote sort of way.

“Perhaps you cannot help me, in the end,” Celebrimbor sighed. He sank down to perch upon the edge of the covers, and morosely he looked down to the parcel now balanced in his lap. “I sense that you have only the power to wound.” 

“To wound, my lord?” Annatar murmured, and about him his glamour seemed to swirl, it curled and shimmered in all of its innocence and all of its treachery. “I -“ Abashedly he bit his lip, he cleared this throat and sorrowfully he began anew. “That was never my intent, my lord. I did not mean to –“

“I am sorry, Annatar.” The words tumbled from Celebrimbor’s lips, raw and desperate and unstoppable, and urgently the elf looked to him. “I am so sorry.”

“My lord…" 

Celebrimbor’s fingers curled into trembling fists about the bed’s quilt, his knuckles shone pale and bloodless through the skin of his hands. “I am sorry. For… for my actions, before. For my _impropriety_. I never… You, you make me…” 

A painful quirk caught upon Celebrimbor’s lips, he seemed to wrestle the slippery words out of his throat, and with fey, glittering eyes Annatar watched him suffer.

“I – I feel for you, Annatar. I do, and that I do not think that I can change. I feel… _deeply_ for you, though – though I am not even sure _why_ …”

Such misery sounded in the elf’s voice, and for a moment Annatar simply rejoiced in it. But as Celebrimbor’s anguished gaze slipped at last from him, Annatar then mellowed, and he murmured, “At times you fear that these feelings run _too_ deep, do you not? They cut too close to the bone.” 

A quavering sigh parted Celebrimbor’s lips, tension locked across his broad shoulders, and his eyes came to a fluttering, cringing close as for a moment he sat in silence.

“Such passions,” he spat at last; a sudden vehemence seemed to wreathe him, and the bitterness of his words left his nose crinkled as they scorched over his tongue. “Such passions, they – they are ugly things. They are wild. They are _destructive_. My father, he – he succumbed to them in the end, and I… I do not want that.” 

Something feral swam in Annatar’s eyes, yet ruefully he smiled, he smoothed the triumphant blare of emotion within him into geniality as he looked upon the elf sitting dejectedly before him. Upon the bed then he shifted himself into a cross-legged position, he leaned forwards, and almost sympathetically he murmured, “You are not your father, my lord.”

“Am I not?” Celebrimbor’s voice was distant; his dark eyes were glazed with some clouded pall of remembrance, and of what foul memories troubled him Annatar did not care to ask. Celebrimbor’s right hand slowly curled about the parcel in his lap; metal crunched from within it as his grip tightened, and as if that slight sound jolted him from his reverie then he sighed, and curiously Annatar watched him as he began to flick open the cloth wrappings.

“I made this,” Celebrimbor said softly; the slight hint of a blush reddened the tips of his ears as he unveiled his handiwork, and a fizz of vindictive delight bubbled in Annatar’s stomach at the sight of the elf’s discomfort. “I made this for you. As… as an apology.”

A necklace of intricately interlocked lames of silver he revealed, and at its richness even Annatar was taken aback. The spiralling, interwoven strands of its chain were set at their core with a dark ruby the size of a swan’s egg, and the gemstone’s facets were set sparkling in a thousand red hues as the soft sunlight and the few lit candles about Annatar’s bedchamber illumined the depths and whorls within the great stone. It was a kingly gift and yet Celebrimbor offered it freely, and Annatar stared in amazement at it for a few speechless moments more until quickly he turned.

He swept the honeyed cascade of his hair aside to bare the back of his neck to Celebrimbor, almost coyly he glanced back over his shoulder, a cheeky shrug belying his invitation, and his acceptance of such a sumptuous apology.Yearning burned in Celebrimbor’s heart as he gazed upon the curve of Annatar’s neck: the slight stud and shift of vertebrae under his skin, the soft ridges of tendons that ran from the light collar of his shirt to the base of his skull, a stray ringlet of hair that slipped down the side of his throat. Desperately Celebrimbor stamped down the ferocious blaze of arousal that ignited within him; he restrained the screaming impulse to simply melt forwards, to take Annatar in his hands, to kiss him, to _possess_ him, and as the more sordid of his thoughts reared their heads, hurriedly he looked away.

Annatar did not want him, he told himself firmly. Let this simply be a gesture of friendship, he willed himself, a symbol of affection without lust, yet he was powerless to stop the aching tremble of his fingers as he lifted the necklace to Annatar’s throat. The Maia dipped his head while Celebrimbor fumbled with the clasps, his fingers brushed over the warm, smooth skin of Annatar’s neck and hard he swallowed back the moan of longing that coiled up in his throat. Quickly though the necklace was secured, Annatar swept his hair back over his shoulders, and with a tentative smile he turned back around.

“It is lovely,” he sighed, glancing happily down at himself as he centred the ruby between the points of his clavicles, before sending such a radiant grin towards Celebrimbor that it nearly caved the elf’s chest in with its brilliance. 

Slowly Celebrimbor nodded; that stunning necklace curled about the Maia’s neck did nothing but enhance his beauty, and gross, crude craving twisted in Celebrimbor’s innards. But ferociously he pushed past such base desire, _Annatar did not want him_ , and with a ruined, hurting smile he replied, “Yet it is still inadequate. It cannot do you justice.” 

“Perhaps I do not deserve your justice, my lord,” Annatar murmured, and at that strange remark Celebrimbor looked more sharply to him. 

But the Maia’s gaze drifted away, dreamily he looked down to his hands folded upon his lap, and the flecks of crimson light that danced across them. For as he turned the candlelight fell upon the great ruby at his throat, and it threw its ghostly refractions to scatter like a spray of evanescent blood upon Annatar’s fingers.

“The light is shattered,” he mused, more to himself than in any declaration of intent, watching in fascination as he twisted his hands about, as the wavering points of crimson light hovered upon his knuckles. 

“It is beautiful,” Celebrimbor smiled, glancing fondly down at those slender fingers.

“It is broken.”

“Can it not be both?”

The light burst into a thousand pinpricks of radiance as Annatar looked upwards, crimson shards spun giddily out across the room to dissolve into the daylight as he shifted himself to sit more companionably by the elf, one bare foot dangling off the edge of the bed while his other leg lay curled before him. 

A look of confusion at Celebrimbor’s last comment crossed his brows; Annatar was so devastatingly beautiful, Celebrimbor thought, so unintentionally alluring and somehow that casualness only made it _worse_. Yet stoically he wrestled down the rich growl of desire in his voice as he continued, “Many beautiful things there were in this world, yet now they are broken, or they are lost, it is true. But that does not deny them their splendour.” 

“Nay,” Annatar replied, a rueful curl plucking at his lips. “Then their purpose is made void. For what is beauty without presence, without… substance? It is rendered hollow. It is unmade.”

“It could be made anew.” Celebrimbor’s voice strengthened, his heart lifted from the muddle of his thoughts, and pride glittered in his dark eyes as they wandered to Annatar’s balcony and gazed upon the distant sunlight beyond. “There is light yet in this world that we might snare, we might distil it and spin it into works of our own wonders. The heirlooms of my house are lost, but even if they might not be salvaged then their glory we might seek to remake.”   

A carefully toneless noise of consideration flickered out of Annatar’s throat. Hard he fought to stop himself from arcing a disparaging eyebrow, from outright scoffing, from laughing in the elf’s face at the sheer enormity of his arrogance. Celebrimbor was talented in metallurgy and jewel crafting beyond the ordinary measure of his kind, that much was undeniable, but his words only thinly veiled the grandeur of his intent.

Yet something in Annatar’s gaze sharpened at the thought, cunningly he tilted his head, he glanced to Celebrimbor as slyly he said, “That is an ambitious charge, my lord.”

“The mighty Fëanáro is my father’s sire,” the elf preened, and with every ounce of his willpower Annatar restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “You would speak to me then of ambition?”

Annatar’s lip curled, his eyes gleamed, and lightly, coyly, he said, “Not so, my lord. I would not _reprimand_ it, if that is what you imply. Merely I would suggest… nay…”

“What?”

Annatar reined in the surge of delight that rolled through him at the urgency in the elf’s tone, and conversationally he continued, “The light of the Silmarilli was sacrosanct; it was blended of blesséd things and now they are lost, they are placed now far beyond the reach of undeserving hands. Yet to my mind there comes a thought: it was not merely light that Fëanáro embroiled within those jewels. There was light, and there was all that the light possessed: purity, radiance, divinity. But there was also _power_.”    

Celebrimbor frowned, his eyes narrowed as he bade the Maia continue.

“If power could be sewn within a material, if the raw tendrils of puissance could be coaxed and channelled and harnessed and within a vessel therein stored, then what realms of possibility might then be opened to us? Alike to the Silmarilli a thing could be made, but where Fëanáro’s jewels were static, this thing could be fluid. If it was not locked, not so rigidly bound, then it could be used to a purpose, it could be replenished and drained in strength without breaking its integrity. If such a thing were to be made, what power then could the bearer wield at their leisure? It would be a marvel, Tyelpë, a thing unmatched in glory and wonder, and its maker would be hailed in utmost renown even unto the end of days.”

Intrigue swirled within Celebrimbor’s mind; all that Annatar said was entrancing, was new and foreign and exciting, yet some small note of caution sparked within him at the Maia’s words.

“Such power you speak of, Annatar,” he said carefully. “This… this raw puissance, so you say, this is the dominion of the Valar, not of my people…”

“Power resides within those capable of wielding it.” Annatar’s voice was soft, delicate; it was laced with poison. “Not fickle deities who turn their backs from this world.” 

Eagerly Annatar leaned forward, with a roguishly conspiratorial air to his manner he lifted his head, and led by an impulse that he refused to give name to Celebrimbor found himself clinging tightly to Annatar’s words.   

“There are other powers in this world, Tyelpë,” the Maia purred, his voice low and soft and perilous. “There are things that were birthed in the Elder Days: dissonant notes of the great Music in the Beginning that wished to play their own tune, that have grown feral. They are wild, perhaps, but they too have power, and strength to challenge even the Valar should they give thought to do so. Blind things gnaw the foundations of the earth; leviathans prowl the deeps where Ulmo’s fair folk dare not to swim. Dark, they are called, malevolent, yet on what authority? Their puissance is different to the tranquillity of the Valar, but does that inherently make it evil? It matters not; perhaps, the consequence only is that the power exists in things such as these. And there are some greater still, beings of such majesty and grace that the Eldar would only prostrate themselves before him in their squalid obeisance…”

A long silence flowed through the room, the sunlight seemed to flicker and dim from beyond the wispy curtains, and the burning wicks of the candles grew long and bright as Annatar’s words washed over them. Celebrimbor blinked almost drunkenly as the Maia’s voice wove its beguiling net about him, his head near lolled as his imagination swelled and waxed with the rhythm of Annatar’s words: beasts of ivory and horn and blood bowed naked and terrible before him, ashen hands and iron crowned him, spears dripped in gore at his sides; revelry, chaos, it was all held within his palm; it infused him, it glutted him with such power that he could cleave the earth asunder, he could sup all red and bloodied and ruined upon its spilling entrails…

“These things,” he slurred: it was so hard to focus, to push aside those lilting, reeling images that beckoned to him, that welcomed him in all of their perversions and all of their temptation. “These things that you speak of… how – how came you by such thoughts?

A cruel smile hinted at the corners of Annatar’s lips, the words dripped from his teeth in a rolling, measured cadence. “In slothful gardens many a flower like thee, the amorous gods are used, honey-sweet to kiss and cast then bruised, their fragrance loosing, under feet.” 

“You recite to me poetries?”

“I recite to you truths, my lord,” Annatar purred, yet a faint humour moved him. “Albeit in poetic form, I grant. A noble composition, penned by the greatest loremaster of our time. For when the body is abandoned to idle luxury, the mind may yet wander. It may turn to treasures, or to knowledge, or to secrets. Or to creations.”

“What then would you create?” Celebrimbor asked. The words flowed greedily from his lips. “What might _I_ create? This… this thing of power. Into what form could I shape it?”

A ponderous moment of silence hung in the air, it became almost hungry, until at last Annatar shrugged, tilting himself away from Celebrimbor and lazily reaching for his book once more.

“I know not, my lord,” he said lightly, yet an indulgent smile played about his lips as the capricious potentials and cruel temptations of fancy curled through him. “It is only whimsy, after all.”

 

* * *

 

The weeks rolled steadily onwards, and despite the ever-present thrum and prickle of unspoken tension that lingered in the air, both Annatar and Celebrimbor for the most part took comfort in their renewed friendship. They worked companionably upon ongoing projects commissioned to the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, from the forging of new ceremonial blades to assisting with the re-armaments and fortifications of Ost-in-Edhil’s main gates.

For from the roads without, brought to the city upon the lips of frightened travellers or battle-hardened dwarves with grim iron in their hands, came foreboding omens of an oncoming darkness. Fell things stalked the moors at night, the dwarves muttered, and even the short road from the Elven city to the West Gate of Moria was growing unsafe. Screams were heard in the mountains, torn from unseen throats, cries and garbled ululations echoed amid the shale as the moon rose above the horizon. At every inconsequential rock-fall or the light scrabble of some small foraging creature, the guards’ stout weapons were drawn, and in the darkness there rebounded unearthly cries amid the fractured landscape. Travellers up the Great Road from the south were snatched by unseen hands should they stray far from their campfires, children and grown men alike were stolen into the shadows with nothing but screams and sodden, red furrows in the earth to mark their passing.      

The fells were become perilous, ravens wheeled and cawed overhead, and despite the heavily armed parties of guards that Celebrimbor sent by day to make safe the lands, they turned up little evidence of misdeeds for their labours. A scuffed track of unrecognisable footprints one party found imprinted into the mud of a narrow, reeking gully to the south-west of the city; they followed its trail to a small dam made of chewed bones and clumped knots of hair, yet the perpetrator of such a grotesque massacre had long since departed.

Smears of blood daubed the walls of a cave far to the south-east, nearer unto the dwellings of the men of the Crossing than to Ost-in-Edhil, yet still the guards investigated. Their horses whickered and shied as they urged them nearer to the cave’s darkened mouth, and upon their tentative entry they found only scrawls of gore plastered over the walls like some obscene mural. Half-intelligible sigils were scratched into the soft limestone; cruor dripped from stalactites sharpened like wicked staves, and such a foul stench lingered upon the air that before long the guards were forced to depart. With haste they traversed the long road back to Ost-in-Edhil, yet for their vigilance and skill among the wilds, they caught no sight of the creatures that howled their hatred to the night’s starry skies, and stealthily continued to slake the lands in blood.

Ost-in-Edhil itself remained free of such perils: Celebrimbor’s stalwart rule ensured that his citizens slept safely behind their high walls and keen-eyed guards, though slowly, unstoppably, the pollution of these unseen terrors encroached upon his lands. No creatures dared the might of the city, not yet, save one, and he wove his concealments cunningly.     

Daily Annatar would walk with Celebrimbor, Corannon, and a score of other engineers and artificers of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and he would aid in consultation of how best to barricade their gates in an emergency, where best to construct secondary fortifications should the need, however doubtful, arise. The courtesans were apt to waive their suspicions, they viewed such troublesome reports as exaggerations or mere mishaps upon their roads and hardly the prelude to war, yet as the weeks dragged on and the numbers of such incidences did not dwindle, even the most frivolous of lords began to pay greater attention to their city’s affairs.

Into the stones then the elves poured their strength, into the mortar that bound them they let flow the true power of their smithcraft and their magic, and ever Annatar aided them, or so he appeared to. With subtle little spells of his own he corrupted their wards, he blighted their safeguards, he weaved his own will among the stones and timbers with but a dusting kiss of power and he bade them stand strong, he bade them hearken to the elves but ultimately bound their subservience to himself. He smiled as he felt the hidden splinters of his own puissance pulse back at him as he laid a caressing hand upon the outer walls, his power dormant and yet readied.

With Ennemirë, Commander of the City Guard he would talk upon occasion. Though he protested his innocence in matters of war, he would advise upon where seemed best to him to post additional soldiery as lookouts, or upon what ramparts new catapults might best be mounted, and ever to Ennemirë’s ears his advice seemed uncannily accurate. Still, she supposed, Maiarin folk were not apt to mistakes, and such was the subtle authority with which Annatar spoke, and such was the utmost trust with which her lord regarded him that any doubts about him that she held were soon assuaged.

In the midst of such militaristic industries still Annatar kept himself busy within the more minor projects of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain’s halls. Upon a month-long commission from Ost-in-Edhil’s trade council he laboured upon introducing the art of silver plating to the elves; the gilding of base metals with a thin veneer of silver which might then be traded at an increased cost.

A small beaker set with a rudimentary circuit of charged metals he had left to steep within a solution of silver chloride, and in the dim morning light of Celebrimbor’s workroom the elf lord peered at it curiously.

“Well,” he said, eyeing the beaker admiringly. “It has certainly worked!”

“Indeed,” Annatar replied, busying himself with lighting a small gas burner upon one of the workbenches with a slight flicker of puissance, for lack of a match to hand. “I said that it would, did I not?”

He crossed the room to retrieve a basket laden with myriad jars filled with metal chunks suspended in oil, and he glanced curiously to Celebrimbor, who was still staring in rapt wonder at the beaker.

“It is quite simple, really,” Annatar drawled. “The silver in the solution is inherently positively charged, and is therefore attracted to the negative cathode, and oppositely the chloride is attracted to the anode. It is little more than magnetism.” 

“But you… you catalysed this reaction, didn’t you?” Celebrimbor frowned, yet eagerly he peered at the wafer-thin flakes of pure silver that clung to the cathode. “Else from where does the energy transfer occur?”

“There is no catalyst,” Annatar explained, laying out the jars beside the gas burner and rummaging about in a nearby drawer for a small pair of tongs. “No catalyst save for a small spark of power. The particles of the reaction must be coaxed into motion, and the goad must come from somewhere. Easily you could replicate this, if you concentrated even a small portion of your _fëa’s_ strength onto it. I could teach you, if you so desired.” 

“Later,” Celebrimbor nodded, wandering from the workbench to sit heavily behind his desk, and morosely he stared at the voluminous pile of paperwork that lay stacked upon it. “Still, it is a wonder…” 

Annatar did not deign to give a reply. It was really rather mundane, he thought. Far greater works than this trivial little beaker had he seen begun in the days of old: he had called down the lightning and channelled it into electroplating upon such a scale that had seen their dark fortress swelled with riches, great swathes of dull metal they plated in gleaming chromium or dusky copper to be traded or sold or shaped as they willed. It was pitiful how little even the foremost of the Noldorin smiths truly knew of industry. 

Still, Annatar mused, there was a smug sort of satisfaction in their ignorance.

With a small notebook and quill left at the ready, Annatar unscrewed one of the jars before him, grasping a small slice of silvery metal with the tongs before plunging it into the flame of the burner. For a moment he waited, until swiftly the flare beneath him transmuted to a vivid lilac in colour. Casting aside the smoking metal to a sterile length of cloth beside him he recorded his observations before turning to the next jar. He worked methodically through the samples, noting as the flame was turned yellow, viridian, and phosphorescent orange with the differing metals, and he made careful notes upon their hue.

At arms length he held his last piece of metal: it hissed and spat as the oil about it ignited, yet it imparted no new colour to the flame. With a click of his fingers he extinguished both the gas burner and the shard of metal, leaving it gently steaming alongside the other scraps as he turned aside.

“Have you any lithium?” he enquired, squinting at the jars that clustered along Celebrimbor’s shelves, and finding none apparent.

“In the store, I think,” Celebrimbor replied distractedly, his gaze flicking up for an instant before he hastily scribbled out several lines of writing upon the end of a lengthy-looking document. Once finished, he cast a fine drying sand across the parchment, and with a sigh he laid his quill aside. “Some was mined a few years back, as I recall it. A seam of petalite was hit within the granite mines to the north, or perhaps we traded with the Hadhodrim for it… Some certainly we acquired, though I do not know how much of it was purified to its elemental form. We do not commonly use it. What purpose do _you_ need it for?”

“I wish to observe its flame colour, that is all. The other metals here are akin to it, save the aberrant, yet there is no lithium among them. It matters not if it is mineralised: I can distil a small amount for my purposes.”

Celebrimbor’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement for a brief moment, to his recollection the purification of lithium was anything but simple, but softly then he shook his head, and he pushed himself to his feet. 

“Come then, walk with me,” he bade Annatar, “for I too have things that I must collect.” 

Together they traversed the halls of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and companionably they chatted as they strolled through the expansive corridors. Nobles nodded politely as they passed; Corannon hailed them enthusiastically through the ajar door of his workroom, the hem of his sleeve perilously close to being singed by the hydrogen flare that seethed above a bubbling vial of aluminium shards soaking in lye, and at that Annatar stifled a contemplative smirk. They clove through a knot of apprentices grumbling about the repetitive acid-base titrations that Narvi had set them to do, they skirted a rather dejected-looking elf who was sporting some magnificent scorches across his flame-proof leathers, and at last Annatar found himself trailing Celebrimbor down the stairs to the cellars that housed the grand store-room.

The narrow stairwell opened out into a colossal chamber; countless rows of filled racks stretched on into the gloom, and Annatar squinted off into the store’s inky depths as beside him Celebrimbor lit a slender lantern and handed it to him. He indicated a row of shelves to Annatar’s far right, saying, “Lithium, or petalite at the least, should be upon the topmost one, about three-quarters of the way down the row, if memory serves correctly. I shall meet you back in my workroom when you are readied. Take what time you need.”

“My thanks,” Annatar intoned, and he and Celebrimbor parted towards opposite ends of the store. Dusty jars and cobweb-strewn boxes cluttered over the shelves, more so as Annatar proceeded into the store’s depths. Great swipes were clawed through the film of grime where items had been recently collected, but otherwise the shelves remained undisturbed, and for how long so Annatar could only guess.

Easily enough he found a chest containing large chunks of glassy petalite, and this he pulled from the shelf and placed at the ready upon the floor. He poked through a few nearby vials, but finding little there of interest he swung aside, the lantern held aloft in his hand. Yet upon the opposite shelf an antique label caught his eye; in a spidery hand half-faded with the passing of time was scrawled ‘warning: toxic’, and upon closer inspection Annatar could just glimpse the fine arsenic powder through the discoloured glass jar.  

A sadistic curl of interest needled him then, and further down the row of shelves he wandered, and that interest sharpened into a vindictive sneer of glee at the treasures he found there. Immense jars of hydrochloric acid were stacked over a huge swathe of shelving, all neatly prescribed according to their concentrations, and fondly his fingers trailed over their capped lids. The screams still rang in his ears: even now, even with the turn of millennia and the countless tortures that he had been privy to, that one still amused him the most.

So deliciously the elf had writhed in his bonds as the searing acid bit into his skin, so thinly he had shrieked as they submerged him in it; he had come up coughing blood and sizzling phlegm as the sensitive tissues of his trachea and lungs were eroded. It had snorted from his nose, it had bubbled all pink and frothy upon his lips as he spluttered, as he jerked, as his eyeballs corroded and melted down his face in two thick, chunky drools of viscera. It was almost beautiful, in a way; they dribbled down his cheeks like vitreous tears.

How pliant the elf’s flesh had been, Annatar recalled, how sticky, how easily it had peeled away from the bone. How wet the elf’s last breaths had sounded, how drowned in despair and pain. He wondered what Celebrimbor now would sound like, gulping like that, his breath coming in soft, erratic clicks through a half-dissolved throat. Would he try to beg, Annatar mused. Even at the end of everything, when words became meaningless moans and coughs and gurgles of agony, would he still try to plead for mercy? Truly Annatar was unsure: Celebrimbor was no craven, but oh how the possibility of experimentation lapped its tempting little urges through him.

A surge of vicious pleasure hummed in Annatar’s stomach as he turned aside, as he wandered yet deeper into the bowels of the store, untouched for years if the thickness of the dust was to judge by. Such wondrous labels leapt at him: slender vials of ethylene were stored opposite jars of cherry-red dichloride of sulphur, and the very thought of their combination made his eyes smart. For all too keenly he remembered that particular trial: even thickly layered in greased, protective leathers as he had been, it had taken weeks for the blisters to recede.

Vesicants clustered next to corrosives; rummaging to the back of a shelf Annatar fished from its depths a tightly sealed jar of a singularly vicious compound of methylated chlorine, and his heart soared at the discovery. It would not be so complex, he thought: a simple catalyst of any generic amine with a solution of hydrofluoric acid to create an intermediary, a sharp spark of puissance and a solvolysis reaction with isopropyl alcohol, and then what glorious terror might he unleash. A silent holocaust he could bring to the bleached walls of Ost-in-Edhil, he could crown himself king of a city of their twitching, suffocated corpses.

The temptation of it gnawed at him, but for now he batted it aside. With a vindictive smirk curled over his lips he turned about, noting the location of the chemicals before backtracking to his box of pelatite, and retreating upstairs to Celebrimbor’s workroom with only a solemn billow of dust to mark his passage through the cellars. 

With a few minor refinements, his flame experiments were carried out well, and soon enough he returned to aid Celebrimbor in his personal projects once more. Phosphorescent trails of turgid, molten metal he let flow into the crucibles that Celebrimbor held; he taught the elf new methods of tempering steel, of variations to the temperatures or the quenching agents utilised that might strengthen the metal dual-fold. 

Hot and sweaty then one afternoon they emerged from the great furnaces, already ripping off their thick leather gloves and face masks as they walked back to Celebrimbor’s workroom. Once inside they stripped in earnest, peeling the heavy leather aprons from their damp jerkins, and Annatar stepped aside his pile of clothing to unbind his hair from its braid, running his fingers through its locks and grimacing as they came away coated in grime. Hurriedly then he yanked off his steel-capped boots and thick socks, and tugged off the heat-resistant jerkin that clung to him, wriggling it off of his shoulders and leaving him clad only in his sweat-stained shirt and breeches.

His back was turned to Celebrimbor, who was occupied with stripping off his gear alike, but as he twisted to straighten out the rumples of his shirt, he could feel the fabric stick uncomfortably high up his spine, and from behind him he heard the elf suddenly gasp.

“Annatar,” Celebrimbor said, his eyes bright with concern as quickly he stepped forward. “Annatar, your… your _back!_ ”

Knotted white scars groped over the Maia’s spine, some curled even to the edges of his ribs, thin and wiry and cutting and so long concealed from prying eyes by the safety of fabric, and Annatar froze as Celebrimbor stepped yet nearer. His left arm moved to clamp protectively against his bared side, he began to tug down the traitorous material that left him so exposed, and quietly he said, “It is nothing, my lord.”

“Nothing?” Aghast, Celebrimbor reached forward; he cared not for propriety as tenderly he reached for his friend’s shirt, as he shifted it gently upwards, and almost numbly Annatar let him. A vicious clutch of horror squeezed about his windpipe as he saw the true extent of the scarring, of the ugly whip-lines that marred the Maia’s muscled back, that ridged over his skin. 

“How can you say this is nothing?” he whispered, his eyes shining with dismay. “For… for Eru’s sake, Annatar, you look like you have been flayed half to death!”

“It is just a memory…” The Maia’s voice was bleached, dead; he looked emotionlessly to the rough wood of the workbench at his side as the memories flitted through him. Before the court he was splayed, his master sent the whip shrieking across his back and smiled as he did it, he had carved those shameful marks through his skin and had made them indelible, and for all of the power intuitive to him never could he lift the cruel marks of his master’s punishment, of his _ownership_ from his skin.

And as Annatar stood so vulnerably before him all at once an inexplicable sense of guilt cramped through Celebrimbor’s innards; a feeling of responsibility, of _protectiveness_ , and his fingers brushed tentatively, sorrowfully over the gnarled edge of a scar upon Annatar’s waist. As Annatar began to pull away, Celebrimbor stopped him; his hand clamped about the Maia’s wrist and held him close. 

“Annatar,” he said gravely, passionately: he could not fathom from what well of emotion his words sprang, he knew only that he ached as he said them. “Annatar, did somebody hurt you? Did somebody do this… to you? _Why_? I – I do not understand…” 

A long pause curdled the air between them, yet determinedly Celebrimbor’s fingers clutched about Annatar’s wrist. They left reddened marks upon his skin.

Softly then Annatar sighed, the glamour about him seemed to dim, and melancholy stabbed suddenly through Celebrimbor’s heart.

“My past was… complicated,” the Maia said slowly. Carefully he chose his words, he compelled himself not to lie but only to twist the truth to his own purposes, for misplaced sentiment here could yet prove his undoing. But swiftly he glimpsed the path to his salvation, and into his words he wove a slight undercurrent of sorcery, and with feigned, stumbling innocence he continued. “I was not always… I have made many mistakes, my lord, and my previous master did not always look upon them with kindness.” 

“But this…” the elf spluttered, “Annatar, this is _appalling_ …”

“Not all have such tender hearts.” A shy smile pricked at the corner of Annatar’s lips, a faint blush mottled his pale cheeks, and hard he fought to keep his veneer of coyness in place as a flare of naked lust bolted through the elf’s eyes. “Not all have regarded me with such grace. Not like you do, Tyelpë. For you are very kind to me here.” 

He felt the elf’s grip upon him shift; shakily, nervously perhaps, Celebrimbor’s fingers slipped down his wrist, across his palm. “I could be yet kinder.”

Celebrimbor’s fingers gently nudged Annatar’s apart, they slipped in between them, and Annatar swallowed back the whimper of abhorrence that threatened to slip from his throat; he transmuted it into a strangled noise that might have passed for shyness.  

“I could be so kind to you,” Celebrimbor crooned, subtly he rocked his hips into Annatar’s body, “if you would only let me." 

His fingernail clipped over a thin golden ring that Annatar wore across his forefinger, and the slight jar of the metal seemed to slam up the Maia’s arm. For like some unholy firework burst inside of his skull an idea erupted within him; his eyes flew open as it suffused him, even as the elf pressed into him a wild, reckless smile creased over his face.

 _Ash nazg…_  

So powerful was the thought that it need not have been spoken, so foul were the syllables that instinctively Celebrimbor jerked backwards, his hand springing free from Annatar’s wrist as if somehow that touch had become scalding. A strange pressure thudded at Celebrimbor’s temples, his tongue felt as though it were coated in grit, yet he blinked to Annatar in confusion. For nothing had happened, the Maia had not moved save for the incredulous expression unfurling over his handsome face, and yet still something felt wrong, the air seemed suddenly dangerous and fey.

“Annatar?” Celebrimbor began slowly; the Maia’s name seemed to buzz and scratch through the sluggish scramble of his thoughts in an entirely unpleasant sensation.

Yet animatedly Annatar turned to him, a bold smile curved over his lips, and such an air of ecstasy seemed to wreathe him that Celebrimbor found himself tentatively grinning back as the Maia hissed, “A ring!”

“What?” 

_Ash nazg durbatulûk -_

“Rings, my lord!” the Maia exclaimed, his golden eyes imploring and excited and oh so beautiful even as he whirled upon his heel, as he shoved his shirt back into his breeches and scraped his hair back into a ponytail.

“I have to go,” he said abruptly, flinging on a pair of boots with such uncharacteristic abandon that Celebrimbor simply stared at him in surprise. “To the library. Yes… yes, they should be there. Excuse me, my lord. I – This will be the making of us all!”

Annatar almost sprinted from the room in his haste, and Celebrimbor stared in utter confusion after him. After a long while of puzzled stillness then he shook his head as if to clear it, he strode over to his desk and took up his quill pen, and desperately he tried to ignore the ugly flush of churning, thwarted, _desperate_ arousal that Annatar had left squirming in his innards.

 

 

* * *

_Thank you everyone for your patience with this update, and I apologise for its longer-than-usual delay! But I hope that in the end it was worth the wait. And I hope that the minor refresher in HL IB-level chemistry might have been mildly interesting for some of you! Certainly elements of it will come into play... As usual, questions, comments and concerns are always appreciated, and any morally ambiguous chemists among you may freely correct any mistakes that I may have made. Until next time, theeventualwinner xx_

_EDIT: Check out[this wonderful piece of fanart](http://markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/post/117947214552/snartha-run-away-tyelpe-from-chapter-4-of) done by the amazing snartha on Tumblr!_

 


	5. Avaritia

The clouds unravelled their entrails across the skies, and beneath their grey pall Annatar meandered through the austere streets of Ost-in-Edhil’s upper circle. The marble facades of the courtesan’s district reared up about him; elegantly sculpted archways bridged buildings lacquered in pearlescent stone, and shady arbours nestled like verdant islands between their pale walls. Through them Annatar wandered contemplatively, he paused for a time under the branches of a weeping willow to admire an elaborately plumed fountain, a tribute to cold Uinen and her wilful husband.

He fiddled with the fine pack slung across his shoulders as he leaned against the willow’s smooth trunk, he picked free a stray thread from his coat and strung a few idle braids through the foremost strands of his unbound hair, until with a scowl he tugged them free. For loath though he was to admit it to himself, here he was skulking in the streets like a petulant child. Yet still, he pondered balefully, idleness was perhaps better than the claustrophobia that Celebrimbor’s house had impressed upon him.

Of late he spent the majority of his time beneath the domed roof of Ost-in-Edhil’s great library, and he paid only fleeting visits to the Gwaith-i-Mírdain’s halls when most ardently his presence was requested. Through the library’s countless scrolls and tomes of ancient lore he trawled, he hunted, from creaking leather-bound tomes unopened for centuries he scribbled down notes upon his own fresh parchments, from crumbling manuscripts he divined what of the original text still remained legible. With the passing of time, slowly he began to assemble what knowledge he required.

For though it seemed only a chime of fancy, that flash of inspiration in Celebrimbor’s workroom those long weeks before had ignited a zealous flame of passion within him. If power could be sewn within a vessel, a metal, a _ring_ ; if it could be corralled there and contained, trapped and yet still allowed fluidity, then what wonders might he be able to create? If into a ring he could pour himself, the crushed, concentrated malice of his spirit put into a thing of metal there to dwell, twice over he could augment himself, or more even, and what boundless power would then be at his fingertips?

What being in these forsaken lands would ever dare to stand against him? 

So fervently he searched; for books brought out of Valinor in the prime of the Noldor’s wisdom, for scrolls upon arcane techniques of metallurgy long thought mere fragments of memory. Fëanáro’s own scriptures were lost; squandered with his bickering sons or swallowed up into their ruinous wars, and the secrets of the Silmarilli he bore with him to his ashen demise. Bitterly Annatar grudged him his stubbornness, those secrets could have proved useful, should he ever have had opportunity to pry them forth. But no matter, in the end, for Annatar did not seek to create some fawning reproduction of the Three. He strove to create something far more precious than simple jewels.

After days of meagre scavenging, at last his efforts were rewarded. Deep within the cobwebbed bowels of the archives he at last unearthed a small, scuffed chest, he had severed through its aged padlock with a sharp word of power, and well he was contented with its spoils. For within the chest papers were scattered haphazardly, decayed with the turning of millennia and yet still legible; essays written by the venerable household of Mahtan, literature upon antique, puissant thaumaturgy, crushed scrolls written even in the academic shorthand of the House of Aulë, and how that discovery thrilled him. Still there was much to be deduced by his own hand and mind, but aided by such ancient lore it came more easily to him, and he relished the challenge of it. 

This was to be his triumph, more than any sly mechanism of war that he set tipping into motion; _this_ was to be his masterpiece, stolen from the Eldar’s lore and made corrupt in his service. A fitting diversion, he thought it, and it kept him mercifully free of Celebrimbor’s clutches for a time.      

For as the weeks had turned, the elf’s hold upon him had tightened like a noose about his neck. Scarcely could he pry himself from Celebrimbor’s side without some snide remark, without some jealous barb, and though at first it had been abstractly flattering, as the days passed without relent it grated upon his patience. Ever their conversations began to fill with caprice, with suspicions; Celebrimbor would pry into even the smallest facets of Annatar’s work with a doggedness that was exasperating. Well Annatar eluded him, beguiled him, turned his suspicions back around upon himself or dashed them aside altogether, yet such constant bickering grew tiresome, and their company turned towards more the parries and feints of swordplay rather than easy camaraderie. 

At least, Annatar thought as he roused himself from the tree’s shade, as he continued his dawdling walk back to Celebrimbor’s house, his excursions to the library removed him from the elf’s stranglehold, and that lightened his heart by no small measure. It made the genial façade that we wore somehow easier to maintain no matter how much it itched at him, no matter how greatly he longed to throw it off, to assume himself again in wrath and pride and power, to take this whining, greedy elf lord and to give him a true injury to bemoan. Nay, excursions out into the city prevented such… _untimely_ actions. His pieces were cast into motion, but the board was not yet fully assembled, and until then he would simply endure the elf’s tedium.

It would all come to such succulent fruition in the end.   

Turning onto the main thoroughfare, Annatar’s lips pursed as a deep trumpet blared suddenly behind him, and he stepped smartly to the side as the clatter of hooves swelled in his ears. He continued walking, yet furtively he appraised the mounted company that swept up the road past him. The turquoise and white banner of the Foamriders snapped crisply above them, their horses’ flanks were frothed with sweat, yet onwards still they spurred them. Spears of whalebone were held loosely in the guards’ hands, darts of fluted baleen they carried at their belts, and helms fashioned after great sea-shells they wore. Rare it was for the Teleri to take up arms, but now necessity forced their hands, for even upon the gentle road from the Falathrim’s shores the darkness had broken.

Messengers were now sent accompanied by armed retinues across Eregion and the North. From the new-founded Tharbad at the Crossing of the Gwathló the parties of Men who paddled their barges upriver to ply their wares came with grim swords in their hands, and stories of blood upon the waters. Along the grand North-South Road, down the Green Way from the north-west came ill tidings, of fell creatures and black deeds, and news of them was received coldly within Ost-in-Edhil’s walls. As yet the city remained untouched, though terrors scourged the mountains about them, none yet had breached the walls save one cunning Maia, and like a maggot chews through living flesh, he had burrowed himself in deeply.

And as he sauntered up the road back to Celebrimbor’s house, Annatar wondered at what fell news the Foamriders brought from their lord, and under the grey churn of the skies, he smirked.

 

* * *

 

The weeks passed in gloomy monotony, yet ever about the city a strange pressure seemed to throb in the air, and the troubles of the lands stoked inexorably to their distant crux. The clouds loured from the dirty skies, their grey, swollen bellies seemed almost to scrape the topmost turrets of Celebrimbor's roof, and within the meeting chamber the elf lord sat grimly upon his grand chair. The crystals picked into its high back no longer shone out their radiance, they sat dully within the wood atop the crossed hammers and silver stars, and from where he leaned against the chair’s back Annatar stifled a rill of pleasure at their pallor.

Framed within the _mithril_ -wrought star set into the floor before them, the chief of Celebrimbor’s gardeners stood gravely awaiting her lord’s attention. The bloodied corpse of a hawk she held sorrowfully in her gloved hands, and worriedly she glanced at it before averting her gaze. The creature’s feathers were matted with gore, its belly split and oozing viscera even as its glassy eyes stared sightlessly up to the windows.

Even the sunlight seemed polluted of late, Celebrimbor thought dourly. It threw only a faint haze of colour across the marble.

“My lord,” the gardener prompted softly; she bowed her head reverently before him as from his drear silence Celebrimbor was at last drawn, and Annatar looked impassively down from his languid poise beside him.

“Tell me how it happened,” Celebrimbor sighed, passing a weary hand over his haggard face. Too often now were evil tidings brought before him, they swirled and moiled like a brooding pall about his heart, and with each new occurrence they seemed to crush inwards upon it like some dismaying vice.

Yet even through the bleak wander of his thoughts, he was so acutely, so instinctively conscious of the lazy tilt of Annatar’s hips beside him, of the curve of his thigh within his fitted breeches not inches from his fingers. And how greatly he wished to reach out to him, touch him, hold him; even in the most inappropriate of situations the Maia’s presence scored a deep furrow of hot, thwarted arousal through his innards.

It was stupid, he knew, it was sick; this insidious, infectious attraction ever left him vulnerable, left him distracted, and inwardly he cursed himself for it. He was better than this, his people deserved better than this, yet he was helpless to resist the hooks that seemed to tear through his heart, that leashed him to the Maia no matter how much he might thrash against them. But Annatar _did not want him_ , he reminded himself savagely, and perhaps that made it all the worse, all the more gutting.

It took a conscious effort of will for him to wrench his thoughts away from the maddening part of Annatar’s thighs as the Maia shifted once more at his side. 

Annoyance flared in his stomach as the _nis_ before him still hesitated, and perhaps more forcefully than he truly intended to he snapped, “Speak, Telemmairë.”

“The hawk was attacked, my lord,” Telemmairë said softly, and her fingers curled about the mutilated little body in her hands. “I saw it upon the eastern horizon, from Lórien I thought it must have come. It soared towards the Hawkmaster’s tower, yet as it crossed the boundary of the city walls suddenly it was besieged. A flock of ravens – “ 

“A murder,” Annatar purred into Celebrimbor’s ear, and a gluttonous note of delight rolled through his voice. It send a shiver up Celebrimbor’s spine which was only partially to do with the Maia’s hot breath upon his cheek. “A _murder_ of ravens, my lord.”

“ – like a black swarm they arose from the rooftops, they mobbed the poor creature, they tore it apart even as it struggled to break free of their tumult. At last it fell, broken and bleeding amid the far bushes of the garden, but it could not be saved. The message was lost, my lord, taken I fear by those foul carrion birds… “

“Thank you, Telemmairë,” Celebrimbor sighed, and curtly he dismissed her with the standing order to shoot down any vile raven that came within bowshot. Solemnly she nodded, she withdrew a small length of cloth from her pocket and respectfully veiled the hawk that she carried, and quickly departed from the hall.

Behind her Celebrimbor placed his head slowly in his hands, despondently he sighed, and through his slitted fingers he stared bleakly out upon the cold, empty marble. All too often now such reports came to him, these crimes committed by an invisible hand were becoming more common by the day, and they weighed heavily upon his conscience.

And from where he leaned against the high chair, above the elf lord slumped below him, the orchestrator of such petty mischief smirked.  

By the shadows of night Annatar would whisper his malice into the earth. Even as his master had done so when Arda was but fledgling in youth, he poured forth the blackness of his will and to him the tortured soil hearkened. For within his incantations, through splattered blood and cimmerian thaumaturgy, he sought out the wells of power that his master had pocked throughout the lands. These reserves, little splinters of hatred and envy long entombed in the soil, in the rocks, in the thick muds and choked effluvia of the marshes he found, and with them he blended the malevolence of his own will. He inflated them, he coaxed them forth, he bent them to his will and he bade them devour.

With the turning of the months he saw his furtive labours bear their fruitions. An unknown blight crippled the Noldor’s fields of wheat and grain; furred, tuberous growths sprouted like some hideous cancer upon bud and stem alike, and slowly the flaxen meadows grew sickly and stunted. Fruit rotted upon the branch as their orchards withered, even the birds would not peck at their stinking remains that dashed in a messy slop to the ground, and any mortal or Quendi who dared partake of the spoiled goods were stricken grievously ill. Frantic messages began to flash across the North-west of the lands; Gil-galad sent riders galloping to Mithlond, to Tharbad, even to Oropher in the Greenwood and the Hadhodrim of Erebor with requests for aid, but those few who returned came with empty, despairing hands.  

As the weeks rolled on truly such frustrations began to bite, and the threat of a famine glowered upon the horizon. Celebrimbor desperately drew up plans with the Council as to allocation and rationing of what crops and livestock yet remained hale, yet even those efforts were not easy. Annatar gave what facetious advice he thought necessary, but ever he remained aloof and oddly impassive to such proceedings, and at the change in him some openly wondered. Gilthariel scarcely deigned to look him in the eye if ever they conversed, her scarred face she turned from him, and Iskandar visibly squirmed with abhorrence if they were left in close proximity for any length of time. But for the love of their lord they endured Annatar’s company, and for the sake of his enterprise Annatar endured theirs, though the air ever grew brittle between them.

Celebrimbor meanwhile was not left entirely blind to the subtle change in his Maia. Too easily did Annatar seem to smile of late, a supercilious grin would roll over his lips at the report of another distant massacre, his eyes seemed to glitter with a fey, conniving light as a stout party of Gonnhirrim told of the sludge that now clotted the Sirannon; its turgid waters now frothed with a foul-smelling scum like pus seeping from a wound. 

Even unto the distant shores of Harlindon, or the wilds of Rhovanion, with increasing frequency animals were birthed stillborn, or some terrible corruption of pregnancy whelped only frail monsters. Beasts tottered on mangled limbs to collapse small hours later, their breathing laboured through fluid-filled lungs. Not three days before in a vale only five leagues north of Ost-in-Edhil amid the rolling hills of Cardolan, an Edain farmer had pulled free of his slain heifer its deformed babe, its fur matted and clumped in a reeking wash of blood and spoiled embryonic fluid, its face atrophied and its limbs scarcely a tangle of gristle about a misshapen thorax.  

Something fickle seemed to glint beneath Annatar’s gentle radiance; it sharpened him, it spilled through him like the slightest drop of blood swirled through smoothest cream. Yet in Celebrimbor’s eyes it did not diminish him, it lent him a daring edge and it burrowed those hooks of desire just a little bit deeper into his heart. For still to him Annatar was charming, affable and suave in what fleeting moments of attention Celebrimbor could snatch from him. That frustrated scramble for affection blinded him to what he did not wish to see, and half wilfully he let it, though every one of Annatar’s subtle rebukes sent a hot clutch of jealousy gnawing through him.

“Where do you go, Annatar?” Celebrimbor murmured one rare day when they both laboured within his workroom. He lifted his head from his papers and stared at the Maia with piercing intent. “Of late you flee from my side, you hide yourself from me… Where do you go?”

“I have told you before, my lord,” Annatar replied disinterestedly, he scarcely glanced up from where he was hunched over his own writings, over the tangle of unbalanced chemical equations and physical theorems that spread before him. “I pursue this project: of the imbuing of power into an object. My studies take me abroad of this house." 

“That’s not good enough.” The elf’s voice dropped to a soft, perilous growl; a mean light crept into his dark eyes. “Where do you go, Annatar?”

The threat in the elf’s voice made Annatar want to throttle him. It disguised only a pitiful whine for attention, no better than some squalling child who pouted and screamed when their mother for an instant turned aside from them. Resentment ignited in Annatar then, truly his patience was wearing thin with such petty behaviour, and tartly he replied, “Have I committed an offence, my lord? I did not realise that I required your _permission_ to part from your side.” 

The venom in the Maia’s tone needled into Celebrimbor’s heart, and it brought up only spite in its wake. Slowly the elf arose from his writing desk, he stalked over to the bench where Annatar sat, and the insolent roll of the Maia’s golden eyes as he approached set anger writhing in the base of his stomach.

“What you do in these lands is business of mine,” Celebrimbor snarled. He leaned imposingly over Annatar’s shoulder, he pressed his bulk down atop the Maia’s slighter frame, and the tangible force of Annatar’s displeasure sent a perverse impulse of delight sparking through him. It was so darkly elating to see Annatar scowl, a sordid rush of victory flooded through him as the Maia recoiled, and down into his face Celebrimbor growled, “You will answer my question.” 

“Fine,” Annatar hissed, he flicked the honeyed sweep of his hair over his shoulder and the light that suddenly blazed in his eyes sent Celebrimbor’s heart lurching.

“Here,” he snapped, he stabbed the quill down atop a sheaf of parchment that he thrust towards Celebrimbor. “They are schematics, my lord, incantations, theories,” he said coldly. “They are matters of alchemy that I would not expect you to understand. Yet the principle of them is this: some measure of power I can imbue within a metal, this much now is certain. You seek for an end to the troubles of your realm, and perhaps now I can gift one unto you." 

Celebrimbor’s brow furrowed as he glowered down at the papers. Circular illustrations and ciphered little annotations in a script that he did not recognise clustered about meticulously detailed designs of nine rings, and looking upon them then his mood softened. The first tremors of realisation, of guilt chimed within him then, he began to glimpse at just how much Annatar was offering him, and regret for his brashness sank in.

“These things…” he began softly, apologetically he winced over to where Annatar still sat stiffly. “With such creations you would propose… what? A… a safeguard of some kind? But against what, Annatar? How might we guard against a sickness that we cannot fathom?” 

“With the right endowment of power, my lord,” Annatar began archly, but swiftly his tone took on a silky cadence, and Celebrimbor’s eyes widened as those entrancing words washed through him. “With the right applications of our noble puissance, we would appoint wardens of our lands. Bastions of health and benevolence amid the sickening earth we would raise up, and we would bestow upon them the means to hold back the shapeless evil that encroaches through the soil. Indeed, it is throughout all Middle-earth that we should distribute our gifts, lest these foul cancers spread their plague in earnest to other lands. It would be unwise indeed to abandon the world to rot, even as we build ourselves higher. It befits us not to dwell upon a crumbling pinnacle, but to rest upon the shoulders of a stalwart scaffold of allies.” 

Wonder glazed Celebrimbor’s eyes; well he glimpsed what Annatar was proposing, and his mind raced to the deeper implications of such actions even as the Maia gave them lilting voice. “Such things that we should make will be a marvel of our age, and well it would serve us, it would serve _you_ , my lord, to share such wealth. A venerable lord even as the great kings of old you would seem should you extend your hand in friendship across all of Middle-earth, and bring those thought forsaken into your esteem. It would seem but pettiness to trammel such generosity within the fair folk of the North alone, and none should ever accuse one such as yourself of base jealousy, now should they, my lord?”

The words dripped like honey from Annatar’s tongue; so desperately Celebrimbor wanted to lick their sweetness from his lips.

“What… what then do you suggest,” he breathed, and a slow whirl of excitement crushed through him was Annatar’s radiant eyes came to a coy rest upon him. 

“Nine rings,” the Maia pronounced. “Nine rings of power we might gift to the race of Men, to the mightiest of their kindred throughout all of the lands lit by Arien’s grace. With these rings they might make safe the lands for our benefit, they might strengthen their bonds of alliance with Ost-in-Edhil in trade and in other matters, and together united in knowledge and resources we might push back this troublesome blight.”

“To whom do we gift them, then?”

“Many noble men there are in the North, but far to the South and to the East they dwell also, and I have walked among them in friendship upon my travels. Upon some I am resolute, and upon others less so, but within the week I shall give you my firm counsel as to whom I consider worthy of your generosity.” 

“See that you do.” Celebrimbor’s voice was soft, intimate; hard he swallowed back the whimper of yearning that longed to sound from his throat as Annatar turned, as he stood and absently moved aside.

“They will be such beautiful things, Tyelpë,” he purred at last, and about him such a wondrous aura glimmered that Celebrimbor ached to see it. “Your name will forever be counted among the greatest of the Noldor in renown for their skill and their forging. With these rings, my lord, we seal our futures.”

 

* * *

 

Despite the looming crisis that day by day scratched a little deeper into the storemasters’ supplies, the arrival of the lords of the Edain warranted as grand a feast as Ost-in-Edhil dared to throw. Banners of myriad shapes and sigils fluttered down from the ceiling, and the tables below were laid lavishly throughout the bounds of the great hall. Wines, meads, and ciders were served in plentiful flagons, and between them jostled platters of salted meats both carven and neatly shredded. Honey-glazed boars crowned the tabletops and set their sturdy legs groaning under their weight, and amid them sprung myriad breads, cakes, vegetables, and stews, and the hall was alight with the warm clatter of dishes and the chatter of parties both familiar and foreign.

By land or by sea; by swaying palanquin or hairy camel-back, or sprightly clippers skimming across the waves and traded for lush barges in the port of Lond Daer for the idle paddle up the Gwathló, the lords of Middle-earth had answered Celebrimbor’s invitation. Amid the full splendour of their courtly retinues they reposed about the benches, and though they talked mostly among their own parties, as the hours rolled by they began to seek out the others of their number, with translators and emissaries sent scurrying to and fro to relay their lords’ pleasantries. Yet for the genuine amicability of their conversation, ever their words hinted at darker tidings. 

Those who had braved the long North-South Road through the Enedwaith told in their sibilant tongues of foul things upon the road, of slaughter in the high fells, of the bloodied carcasses of men and horses left plundered and crawling with flies by the wayside. To this news the Northmen and Quendi of Celebrimbor’s court alike listened, and their mood grew stern. But amid the general throng and excited buzz of the hall their hearts were quickly uplifted: all had arrived hale and whole, and all had come in friendship for the unveiling of what mighty gifts were promised to them.

The moon was riding high amid the tumult of the clouds when at last a call was made for quiet. From a gilded chair at the centre of the high table Celebrimbor stood, bedecked in dark, lordly velvets with a great emerald bound across his brow he seemed the very pinnacle of stately grandeur, and at his brief gesture the hall fell silent. He gave a short and undoubtedly moving speech of welcome, of courage and unity in uncertain times, and seated upon his right hand side Annatar stifled a yawn. His fingers twitched about the stem of his goblet, the elf’s prattling and unsubtle self-aggrandisement stirred up nothing but ire within him, and swiftly he distracted himself with eyeing Corannon nearby lest more unsavoury musings grip him in earnest.

Garbed in the ceremonial cloth of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, Corannon stood at waiting attention, with nine gleaming rings held reverently before him upon a black velvet cushion. 

If only they knew how much work had _truly_ gone into them, Annatar thought as he glanced over the nine trinkets. It was not a matter of power; mostly he had left Celebrimbor to pour the strength of his own _fëa_ into them, and Annatar sealed them with only a dusting knot of power, a corrupt little seed that would sprout, would corrode, and would with due time destroy. Nay, the effort was more in the repression of the increasingly acute desire to snap the elf lord’s neck, if only for a reprieve from the incessant questions and barbed insinuations that flowed from him.

A wave of dignified applause broke through the hall as Celebrimbor finished his speech, and with a thin smile plastered over his lips Annatar clapped icily along with them. Celebrimbor stepped forward then, and Corannon moved to bear the rings at his side, and one by one the herald announced the Edain lords who stepped forward to receive their gifts.   

To Khamûl, Chieftain of the Wainriders, Caliph of Asmiro, Ju’qûr, and Redsu in the East, Master of the Sea of Rhûn, was gifted a golden band inset with a glittering beryl, and the lord closed his khol-limned, olive eyes in reverence as Celebrimbor slipped the ring upon his finger. To Alcarin, Lord of Fornost and the Arthedain was given a slender ring with a pale hematite crystal upon its seam, and he kissed Celebrimbor fondly upon the cheek as the elf lord raised him up. Long had their lands and cities been allied, and longer still might that allegiance prevail, the man pronounced, and he stepped genially aside as Rhaeon Wyrmrider, fey warrior-king of the Haradwaith ascended the dais. The Wyrmrider’s skin was dark as poured pitch, his face was ever veiled so that none might glimpse his mood, but the curving scars that decorated his arms well denoted his rank. The warring clans that dwelt miles inland of the distant port of Umbar had long since tamed the feral sand-wyrms that delved amid the shifting deserts. With meats and sorceries they cozened them, driving them to war and as beasts of labour amid the dunes, and mightiest of their kind, rider of the Ur-nakur, the Earthshaker, was Rhaeon of the clan Tirzul. The chestnut pictograms branded into his arms rippled like the wyrms of legend as he accepted a noble ring upon his burnished finger, a sterling band inlaid with a triangular citrine gem. 

To Halador, noble lord of Lond Daer whose lineage traced back even to Haleth the Hunter in the Elder Days, was presented a slim ring of aquamarine, and the lord bowed low before Celebrimbor in acceptance of such a precious gift, and was well satisfied with this gesture of their long friendship. With all of the expected pomp and ceremony then came forth Tar-Súrion crowned with a band of wrought Noldorin gold, ninth King of Númenor in the days of its growing splendour, and as a ring of verdant malachite was placed upon his finger he laughed joyously to receive it. Warmly he embraced Celebrimbor then, a smattering of words passed between them in the High Elven tongue, and he patted Corannon companionably upon the shoulder as he descended the dais and was ensconced back into his noble retinue. Naeryan stepped forward then, High Priest of Khand’s Witchocracy clad in robes of smoky grey and a headdress dripping with lion’s teeth. His bare feet glided across the marble as one sacrosanct. In a gracious, mellifluous tongue he thanked Celebrimbor for the trinket, a spun band of gold inlaid with a polished stone of lapis was set upon his bone-white finger, and a prayer to his bloodthirsty god beyond the Ephel Dúath in the Shadowed Lands he offered then in hushed, reverent tones.

The aura that gleamed about Annatar seemed to thicken, seemed to grow ever more brilliant as the priest’s words washed over him, and deeply he inhaled to squash down the sudden flourish of power that the words invoked in him. Long it was since he had received such direct homage, though ever the Witchocracy burned effigies and made sacrifice in his black name, and the thrill of such concentrated pleasure now writhed and moiled under his skin. 

Iormund Serpentsbane replaced the priest upon the dias, the swarthy commander of Andrast, a mariner of Númenorian descent who had vanquished the sea-serpent Crillac upon his perilous voyage east from Rómenna. To him the men of the Ered Nimrais flocked, and graciously he received a stalwart ring of amethyst. The deep purple gem glittered magnificently upon his finger as he raised it up into the gentle moonlight, and warmly he spoke to Celebrimbor and all of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain of the quality of its make. Forward then came the Boneweaver, the dread lord of the Sea of Núrnen, in shimmering robes of an uncertain pearlescent hue that lay corseted to his abdomen with great curls of some strange creature’s ribcage. Small mismatched vertebrae clacked in macabre pendulums from his dreadlocks, femurs and clavicles were strung together upon a cord of knotted cartilage at his waist, and upon gaunt fingers already gilt with carven knucklebones Celebrimbor placed a small ring of onyx.

Yet it was odd, Celebrimbor thought, where the other lords made gracious genuflection to him, the Boneweaver with his eerie iridescent eyes seemed to stare through him, past him. He seemed only to espy Annatar, the Maia serenely seated at the high table still and observing the proceedings. It was strange, Celebrimbor puzzled, it must simply have been a trick of the light or a spiteful phantom of his imagination, yet as the Boneweaver turned, he was certain that he saw him wink at Annatar. And the mischievous little smile that hinted at the edges of his Maia’s lips sent dual shards of jealousy and suspicion stabbing through his innards. 

Last of the foreign guests came forth the Lord of Angmar, the Sorcerer-King of Carn Dûm, Warden of the Forodwaith and Rhudaur even to the peaks of Mount Gundabad in the Ered Mithrim, and to him was given a thick golden band inset with a milky opal. The proud lord bowed low before Celebrimbor as the ring was placed upon his forefinger, and it shone like a curdled drop of cream crowning his metal-shingled gauntlets.  

To merriments the feast commenced, and throughout the night many of the visiting lords announced themselves once more to the high table, eager to bask in Celebrimbor’s favour. From such sycophantic abasements Annatar turned aside, but more than once he was drawn irrevocably into their attentions, and he imparted what oily words he thought befitting to each. To some it was a simple veneer of cordiality, but to some whom in other guises were more intimately acquainted, the conversations in Celebrimbor’s presence grew veiled. Furtively Annatar would slip from the table, taking one lord or other aside, and his lengthening absences preyed upon Celebrimbor’s heart as the feast continued. 

The night’s revelries had long since drawn to a close when Annatar slipped back inside the doors of Celebrimbor’s house. Towards his own rooms he walked, with lungs full of night air and the salty aftertaste of black puissance upon his tongue, he stalked through the warm annuli of the lanterns dotted about the corridors.

“Annatar,” a voice called suddenly from down a joining hallway, and turning in surprise the Maia found himself accosted by Celebrimbor’s weary steward. “My lord commands your company this night,” Aethir said slowly, tiredly, he walked forward to greet the Maia properly. “I had been sent to look for you…”

“And so you have found me,” Annatar replied, his voice kept carefully neutral even as irksome apprehension swirled through him. Demands of such a nature bore ill tidings by the shadows of night, and quite frankly he had been looking forward to the peaceful embrace of his bed, not batting off whatever clumsy threats or advances the elf lord sought to thrust upon him. Ruefully he sighed, yet to Aethir then he said, “Thank you. I shall go to him presently.”

The steward nodded in agreement, he opened his mouth as if to say something more, but with a pained twist of his lips thought the better of it. Fleetly then Aethir bade Annatar good night, and left the Maia to his unwanted trek towards Celebrimbor’s chambers. 

The thick, sweet aroma of wine greeted Annatar as he edged the door open to Celebrimbor’s bedchamber, and disgust curled within him as he stepped through the doorway. The grand bed lay untouched against the far wall even for so late an hour, and before a round table set into the corner of the room the elf sat. Before him lay several half-emptied flagons of wine, a goblet he held shakily in his hands, and his drunkenness was so repellently clear as clumsily he turned about. 

A crooked leer scored over Celebrimbor’s face as he sighted the Maia, _his_ Maia, but though his cheeks were flushed a deep pink with the wine, though his eyes sparkled, there was no merriment in him, and cold grew his stare as Annatar shut the door behind him.

“You…” the elf lord slurred, the legs of the chair scraped across the floor as Celebrimbor wrenched it about to face him. “You have lied to me, Annatar.”

Annatar stamped down the contempt that threatened to bolt from him at such an audacious claim, he grappled it back down to a simmering glow of resentment in the pit of his stomach as he stepped a few paces into the room. Icily he smiled, and thinly he replied, “Lied to you, my lord? Of what nonsense do you speak? What manner of deceits do you mean to thrust upon me now?”

“You spin your words cunningly, Maia,” Celebrimbor sneered; he took a large gulp of wine that stained his lips a ghastly purple. “But it does not veil your guilt. You have been espied in your secrecies, in what you would keep hidden from me.”

“And what do you presume that I hide from you, my lord?”

“Gilthariel has spied you slipping into the shadows of dusk,” Celebrimbor said, and a dark swathe of indignant, _justified_ anger unfurled within him as Annatar looked haughtily down upon him. “She has seen you flit among the gardens like some malicious sprite, and outwards into my city, always furtive, secret in your movements.” 

“I am a guest in your house, my lord,” Annatar replied coldly, and though he did not move something about him seemed to sharpen, the radiant, evanescent aura that enshrouded him for a moment became brittle, and something treacherous hinted beneath it. “I have committed no crime,” the Maia continued. “I have not violated the laws of your realm. Might I not wander the grounds and the city at my leisure? Or would you rob me of that right in your pretentious accusations?” 

A ruddy flush mottled down Celebrimbor’s neck, and hatefully he snapped, “I pretend at nothing! Gilthariel has seen the ravens flock to you; she spoke to me of how they glut themselves at your will. They bring you scraps of meat in tribute, they caw and make obeisance before you…” 

The Maia’s scoff brought Celebrimbor up short; the sneer that curled over his handsome lips sent outrage and the first awful tremors of desire clenching through Celebrimbor’s guts. For so imperious, so cold and lucent Annatar seemed, his chin lifted proudly and his golden eyes glittering as he stalked forward. 

“These are flimsy allegations, my lord,” he began silkily, behind his words he pushed just the slightest spell of compulsion, of coercion. “I walk among the gardens by dusk because it pleases me to do so. The red spill of the sunset into the haze of the West is glorious to behold, and the sweet scent of pine upon the air brings me joy in these troubled times. There are birds in the gardens indeed; the ravens roost there even as they have claimed the city as their home. Yet they flock to any who might walk among them, they squabble and caw for attention, and I have little for them save a passing glance. I cannot begin to fathom what you mean of _obeisance_ , my lord. I am no slave of Manwë’s, I do not command the great birds of these lands. I do not command _anyone_ …” 

Nausea squirmed in Celebrimbor’s stomach; Annatar’s words were so _true_ , he realised, so innocent and so subtly injured, and guilt spilled through him that ever he should have suspected evil of one he so adored. Yet the lingering shreds of mistrust still swirled within his mind, and shakily he took another mouthful of wine, its numbing sweetness seeming to soothe his fragile nerves. And even as he looked up once more, Annatar was there, aching in his beauty; so tender, so pure and sacred and good.

“Do you not trust me as you once did, my lord? Let not the lies of some viperous maid curdle the air between us, for I would not wish it so.” 

“Lady Gilthariel is wiser than you give her credit for,” Celebrimbor sighed, but even to himself his words sounded faint. “I do not dismiss her council lightly…”

Displeasure marred Annatar’s smooth features, and snidely he remarked, “The Lady Gilthariel may soon discover that wisdom does not equate to prudence.”

“Prudence…” A dim flush of emotion stirred Celebrimbor to bitter mirth, and he took another gulp of wine. “She is my guest here, as are you,” he muttered. “She need not walk with fear within these halls. She is… she is a reminder of what my inactions have wrought…”

Annatar’s eyes narrowed; the wine hummed inside of Celebrimbor’s skull, and in a sudden, baleful torrent he spat the words from him. “She was disfigured because of _me_. Because of my father. Because I did not stop him, I did not have the _courage_ … I stood aside when he spoke out all those years before, he and my uncle usurped the throne of Nargothrond and I just let it happen, I turned my face away, and - … How many other things have happened upon my unwitting account?”

“Do you know what he did to her, Annatar?” Celebrimbor’s fingers clenched hard around the stem of his goblet, his knuckles whitened and a spasm of abhorrence twisted across his face. “Doriath burned, and Menegroth was fed to the flames of my uncles’ war. My father came upon her in the halls of her kin, and consumed by his madness he saw only another enemy, another obstacle standing in the way of his prize… He took her, he _butchered_ her brother before her eyes, and even as the flames licked up the crumbling walls he smashed the blade from her hands, he seized her, he pressed her into the fire. And he _laughed_ as she screamed, he crooned the foulest of things into her ear as her flesh melted, as she was mutilated, and he left her gasping and broken upon the floor. He turned aside with her brother’s blood upon his sword and he left her there to _burn_ …”

Celebrimbor’s head bowed into the silence that hovered through the room, and Annatar looked impassively down upon him. It was a heinous deed, the Maia thought absently, yet the elf lord’s whining did little to move him. Indeed, his patience with such loathsome self-pity was scraping perilously thin. 

“I cannot turn aside, Annatar,” Celebrimbor said suddenly, fiercely; yet the look in his eyes as he glanced up to the Maia betrayed only his despair. “I cannot look away anymore. And yet now the omens of another war gather before my gates…” 

He refreshed his goblet of wine from a heavy flagon, and from it took a long, mournful draught.

“My mother,” he said softly, “perhaps she was right, all of those millennia ago. When first my grandfather spoke out against the Valar’s rule, when he rebelled and my uncles first drew their swords amid the streets of Tirion. She looked upon my father, and where I saw only righteous, admirable pride, perhaps she saw him for what he truly was. She saw him as a _monster_ …” 

“And yet still she abandoned you to him.”

“ _What_?” The cruelty in the Maia’s tone skewered right through him, it left him breathless in his shock. 

“She did not love you enough to make you see the truth.” Something merciless cracked through Annatar’s very being. His words cut down to the bone. “She left you blind. She scratched out your eyes and left you to stumble on in your father’s shadow. She left you to be tainted, for him to pollute you. It’s almost _funny_ , really. Her cruelty is admirable.”

“No!” Celebrimbor gasped, a wave of drunken outrage sloshed through him as he gaped up at Annatar in offence. “No, no it _wasn’t_ like that…”

“She forged for you your exile simply because she did not care to stop you.” Malice glittered in Annatar’s eyes as he stalked forward, tall and proud he stood over Celebrimbor who seemed for a moment to quail before him. “Perhaps you were too much like him,” the Maia sneered. “Too wild, too _savage_ , too entranced by the glow of your own flame, so easily consumed by the rush of your own glory. Perhaps you proved to her a _disappointment_ , in the end. Either way, it was a cowardly deed.”

“You…” Celebrimbor spluttered, his vision near whitened with rage as he stared up at Annatar. “You _dare_ …“

“To tell you the truth?” the Maia snapped, all high cheekbones and twisted lips. “Yes, I do. You shroud yourself in petty self-delusions of grandeur, of your own righteousness, but in truth your kin betrayed you, and even now you betray yourself. From the very beginning, you were destined to fall. Your legacy placed the noose about your neck, and you do precious little to dissuade the tightening of the knot.”

“No!” Celebrimbor growled, he looked upon Annatar with abhorrence in his eyes, but it was the curl of lust that swam beneath it that undid him. “You’re _wrong_ ,” he said bitterly, pleadingly. “I am not just a product of my bloodline. I am _not_ my father.”

Wine slicked his trembling lips in a ruddy hue, it drowned out what lordly inhibitions fettered him and it inflamed only that which he would suppress. And as Annatar turned aside with a scoff, as the Maia _yet again_ denied him, a carnal surge of lust ripped up from Celebrimbor’s stomach, it smashed past every wavering bond of decorum that he had set to guard it; it fizzed in his veins with its power and its fury. So as Annatar stepped aside, sharply Celebrimbor reached out to him, his hand clamped down hard about the Maia’s wrist and yanked him back. 

“You’re wrong, Annatar,” he growled, his fingers bit with crushing force into the Maia’s arm as he tried to squirm away. And oh what sordid part of him screeched out its victory as he jerked Annatar towards him, as he pulled him down, as he forced him into his lap. Annatar’s legs twisted between his thighs, and something lurched in kind in Celebrimbor’s stomach, such hot, hurting desire crashed through him. It collided with a last tremble of horror as he felt Annatar flinch as his right hand gripped his waist, and for a moment it shook him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, he whispered it into the crook of Annatar’s neck, he panted it into the Maia’s skin even as his grip tightened, waist and wrist alike. “I’m sorry… I…” The wriggle of Annatar’s hips atop him sent a hot crush of arousal bolting through him, it set his mind reeling, brimming over with the thrill, the danger, the ecstasy of it, and through the muddle of his thoughts he wasn’t even sure what he was begging for anymore but still he mewled, “Please, Annatar, please, please forgive me…” 

His fingers delved beneath Annatar’s shirt, they slid over the curved muscle of his hip, and even as the Maia jerked away from him, he slid his hand yet more firmly across his pelvis, his stomach. “Please, Annatar,” he whispered, he pulled the Maia yet closer, he crooned the words like some sick fawning litany up his neck, his lips trailing reverent little kisses up the warm skin of the Maia’s throat. “Please, _please_ , absolve me, Annatar, please, love me, and for your mercy I would see you crowned…”

“And I would see you bleed for it.”

Desire slammed through Celebrimbor’s heart; he scarcely registered what words had flown from the Maia’s lips as a feral snarl of carnality ripped out of his throat, his fingers trailed across the scars upon Annatar’s back and with that final swell of emotion it was as if the world had come undone. Desperately he slid his hand up, his right hand cupped the base of Annatar’s skull and with the force of all that yearning and crumpled, awful pride for years now rejected he pulled the Maia forwards, he smashed his lips upon Annatar’s own.   

Clumsily, greedily he kissed him, he forced apart the Maia’s lips and a groan of lust he sent spinning down Annatar’s throat. And in that moment such base ardours moved him; the protesting wriggle of Annatar’s hips atop him only set him aflame, the dizzying swirl of Annatar’s tongue only sent him spiralling higher, bolder, stronger. It suffused him with not the desire to revere but to _covet_ , to possess, to consume, to _destroy_ ; to take Annatar and piece by pleading piece just break him apart, so that he could never betray him again, so that nobody else could ever have him, touch him, look at him; he could be perfect and pure and precious forever, he would blink up at Celebrimbor with parted legs and wet lips and he would be _his_ , and his alone.

His hand dropped to Annatar’s waist, his fingers groped over his arse, they left furrows across his breeches with the force of his intent, but with a wrench that took him utterly surprise Annatar ripped himself from his grip.

Quickly the Maia stood, loathing burned in his eyes, but with feyness to match Celebrimbor followed him; he grasped Annatar roughly about the hips once more and forced him backwards. An obscene waltz across the room he led until at last the Maia’s back was pressed up against the wall, Celebrimbor’s right hand came up beneath his chin and he had nowhere left to hide.

Savagely then he kissed him, possessively, hungrily, and where Annatar found the restraint within himself to endure the elf’s boldness, to not spit out a curse and to send his entrails slopping to the floor, he did not know. Puissance sparked within his veins, disgust churned in his blood, and with one controlled flash of power he wrested his mouth free, with every ounce of conviction in him he shoved Celebrimbor back a few paces. 

Haughtily he shook his ruffled hair from his shoulders as the elf lord stared at him. He licked the smear of wine from his lips and he spat it to the floor. 

Something unhinged danced in the elf’s eyes, some sheen of madness showed itself bold, and an ugly sneer contorted his face as he breathed, “You would refuse me, _still_?”

“You are not yourself.”

“I am more myself now than you could fathom in the depths of your dreams,” Celebrimbor growled, a brute, animal note clotted in his voice. “For all too clearly now I see you, Maia. I see all that you withhold from me. All that you _deny_ me.”   

“Allegiance I swore to you,” Annatar retorted, his eyes narrowed disdainfully. “But never subservience. I do not owe you anything.”

“Who granted you passage into this city,” the elf lord snarled. “Who has elevated you among our rank, supported you, trusted you, even when those about you hounded you with _lies_? Everything you are, Annatar, you owe it to me. And I only ask for a measure of gratitude in return.”

“I do not sell my gratitude like some dockside harlot,” Annatar spat, and a livid vein split down the elf’s forehead to hear it.

Fury thrummed in Celebrimbor’s stride as he stepped forward, as he grabbed the insolent Maia before him and forced him back, as he snarled down into his face, “ _I_ am your patron. _I_ am your lord. Every breath that you take within these walls is at _my_ pleasure. Every beat of your fickle little heart passes because _I_ allow it. Do I not then deserve you?”

The arrogance in the elf’s tone was galling; it was all that Annatar could do not to laugh in his face. Yet as the elf’s hands tightened menacingly about his shoulders Annatar grimaced; it hardly seemed worth the effort of restraining the black puissance that longed to rally to his defence, and in a voice that could have withered leaves upon the branch he said, “Perhaps then you do. But I cannot give you what you hope to obtain.”

“Can you not?” The elf’s finger trailed across Annatar’s lips, domineeringly he parted them, and a ruined smile of lust and warped, tender affection twisted over his face as he felt the hot slick of the Maia’s saliva upon his skin. “You hide behind your pretty smiles, your gilded eyes, your coy flirtations. No more.”   

Into Annatar’s waist Celebrimbor ground his hips, his left hand slipped to Annatar’s pelvis, it skated over his hipbones and roughly Celebrimbor began to palm him, and from him then Annatar recoiled in earnest.

“You’re disgusting.”

Something lewd, something dark and vulgar and pounding in its need punched up from Celebrimbor’s stomach, he pressed the larger bulk of his body against Annatar once more, and voluptuously, messily he kissed him, he poured the words down the Maia’s throat. “No more than you, little whore.”

A crackling pulse of puissance sent Celebrimbor staggering backwards, it haloed Annatar in a wreath of seething, phosphorescent sparkles of light. Yet as the breath trickled back into Celebrimbor’s lungs, the furore of his madness inflated him once more, thwarted desire ignited within him and an unearthly smile clove over his face as he glared over at Annatar. 

“All that I have done,” he hissed, one arm he held instinctively clasped to his stomach like a shield, and he half expected it to come away dripping in crimson. He would have scratched it clean if it had. “All that I have done, I have done it for you. Is it not enough?” 

“Look at yourself,” Annatar sneered, there was nothing left in his eyes but contempt. “You’re a _disgrace_. It speaks to naught that your mother abandoned you, that your father was disappointed, that Fëanáro himself would exorcise you like a blemish upon his legacy. You are _weak_ , Tyelperinquar, you are _hollow,_ you are nothing but a snivelling shadow pretending at their greatness, and –“

Annatar’s stinging vitriol was hauled to an abrupt close as Celebrimbor lunged forwards, as he clouted the Maia across the face. A choke of surprise cracked out of Annatar’s throat, and how hatefully then the Maia looked to him. He flicked his hair back from one already reddening cheek, but amid his revulsion how _triumphantly_ he smiled. Balefully Celebrimbor glared back at him, his palm stinging from the open-handed blow and indignation singing in his blood, and his fingers shook as the silence curdled between them.

“So,” the Maia said tartly; the quiet shattered and quailed. Through a bloodied lip he grimaced, his golden eyes _burned_ , and if Celebrimbor had somehow hoped for his submission then sorely he was left dismayed. For such venom seemed to fill Annatar then, such anger, such boiling outrage that it seemed almost to shriek from him, and even through the clamour of his own mood Celebrimbor became coldly, _excruciatingly_ aware that he had crossed a line.

“So,” Annatar sneered, and such was the imperiousness in his bearing, such was the raw, churning power that irradiated him that Celebrimbor near collapsed before him in contrition. “The taint runs in the blood after all.” 

“I am not my father,” the elf whispered hoarsely, he looked so helplessly, so piteously to Annatar for forgiveness even as his palm stung, as it prickled red with the impact. It left him stained in his guilt. “Please, _please_ , Annatar, I am not them, I - “

“Nay,” the Maia said softly, callously. “You are not even fit to tarnish their memory.”

And with that Annatar stepped away, he turned aside, and at that last rebuke, that final spurn something awful ripped up from Celebrimbor’s stomach. It clawed through him with its puissance, some fell vestige of Fëanáro’s ancient wrath perhaps did for a moment seize him, dark and pounding and violent it consumed him until it sent him reeling, it crowned him in its madness and it spurred him to act. 

For this impudent Maia would kneel before him, willing or no Annatar would come to heel, he would be _made_ obedient, his submission would be stripped from him, torn from him until those pretty eyes wept, until bruised lips begged for his mercy, until Annatar licked apologies from his fingers like some shivering little dog, and maybe then Celebrimbor might spare him from the whip.

Sharply then he lunged, fury and mania crowned, but what chilling blades of shock stabbed through him then, for even as he broke towards Annatar’s retreating form, the Maia moved. Quicker than thought, quicker than Celebrimbor’s eyes could follow Annatar twisted, with an unholy snarl upon his face he whirled, and puissance black as the fathomless night burned in the Maia’s fingertips as his hand came to a crushing, brutal close upon Celebrimbor’s throat.

 

* * *

 

_Ahh, I'm sorry to end it on such a cliffhanger but this (rather lengthy) update had to end somewhere! But I hope it was worth it. And I promise that I shall update as swiftly as humanly possible, and continue on Annatar and Celebrimbor's sordid little saga. Until next time, theeventualwinner. x_

_EDIT: I link to a[great little fanart](http://markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/post/111571979252/becauseimfabulousthatswhy-celebrimbor-inspired-by) by becauseimfabulousthatswhy on Tumblr, of our dear Celebrimbor having a bit of a meltdown._

 


	6. Luxuria

Rage; sheer, incandescent rage moiled through Annatar’s golden irises. It wreathed him in its glow, it sparked and flashed like a million dying stars about him, and with a snarl of fury torn across his face he tightened his grip about Celebrimbor’s throat.

“ _You will not strike me_.”

The power in Annatar’s voice sent Celebrimbor’s knees buckling; he gagged as the force of that puissance slammed up against him, shook him, ruptured him. Desperately he scrabbled at Annatar’s wrist, his fingers clawed reddened furrows across the Maia’s skin as he tried to tear himself free of that awful, suffocating hold, yet only a squeak of fright wormed out of his throat as Annatar’s grip tightened. 

Phosphorescent flashes of light danced at the edges of Celebrimbor’s vision; bones grated in his neck as the Maia jerked him forwards, as into his face Annatar snarled, ” _You will not touch me. You will not lay an unclean finger upon me, Tyelperinquar, not unless I see fit to grant you the honour of it_.” 

Desperately Celebrimbor gulped; bile came sizzling up his throat as the Maia’s command wrenched inside of him, and helplessly he spluttered as truly he began to asphyxiate as Annatar marched him back across the room. 

“P-please…” he choked, he _begged_ as his bare heels skidded upon the marble beneath him, as Annatar’s eyes bled like auric orbs into the blackness that hemmed in his vision. How fiercely they burned, he thought wildly; still they were so beautiful, but how cruelly Annatar sneered then as Celebrimbor spluttered anew, as he gasped, “P-please… I’m s-sorry…” 

“ _No, you’re not_.”  

The _hatred_ in Annatar’s voice sliced right down to the bone. Yet even as the roar of impending unconsciousness sounded in his ears, even as he gagged and retched in Annatar’s strangling grip, suddenly, roughly he was relinquished. Backwards upon the bed Annatar slammed him down, and for one horrific moment the Maia left him there to splutter. 

Celebrimbor’s hands jerked up to his throat, he scrabbled at himself as if somehow he could undo what had been done; he could remove the redness that flared like some unholy necklace about his throat. But even as the air flooded back into his lungs it came polluted, and the Maia’s bruised smile above him was unearthly. 

“ _Strip_ ,” Annatar commanded; a great crackle of puissance he threw behind his voice, and such was the blind, clamouring compulsion in it that Celebrimbor keened as it gripped him, as it played like a searing whip-lash within him and forced him to move. 

Frantically, desperately he shrugged out of his shirt: Annatar had told him to do it, his Maia _wanted_ him to do it, to be all naked and sordid and waiting before him. That impulse careened through his stomach; he barely drew breath as he fumbled with the laces of his breeches, only just did he slide their waistband over his hips when Annatar ripped them down his legs.

With that violence Celebrimbor shuddered, even through the seething clamour of his lust, some struggling vestige of caution chimed in him. For something perilous seemed to irradiate Annatar’s very being; corrupt and slick and sublime was the Maia standing atop him; at once sacrosanct and unholy.

The smirk that curled over Annatar’s lips scourged such doubts from Celebrimbor’s mind. A bolt of cramping arousal lanced up from his stomach at the glitter in Annatar’s eyes, and powerless then he was to hide the traitorous stiffening of his flesh.

“You are incorrigible,” the Maia sneered, wondrous and horrifying were his words and Celebrimbor merely moaned in reply. With bitter mirth Annatar reached forward, with a crunching surge of power he flipped the elf lord bodily over, and a gasp of surprise hissed out of Celebrimbor’s lungs as his face and chest crushed suddenly into the sheets. Annatar’s power crackled over his skin, it forced him down, and such craving pounded in his stomach as he felt the Maia move. 

A sharp slap to his inner thigh parted his legs, the sting across such sensitive skin sent Celebrimbor’s knees skipping lewdly apart. A flush of humiliation mottled over his cheeks as he splayed himself, as he felt Annatar slip upon the bed behind him, the Maia positioning himself between his spread legs. 

“Wait… I – I didn’t…” 

Whatever Celebrimbor was about to say was lost into the moan that scored from his lips as Annatar ran one sharp nail down the back of his thigh. Across the pink welt of that slap before Annatar trailed his fingers; he revelled in the tight, painful jerk of the elf’s body before him, he gloated in the little mewls of pain that scampered over the elf’s lips with each new contact.  

“Annatar, w-wait -”

So abruptly the elf’s speech was severed as Annatar lunged forward, as pale hands knotted through Celebrimbor’s hair and yanked him upwards. The elf’s back arched as Annatar hauled him up, a grunt of pain punched out of his throat as he was forced to bend, forced to splay himself into Annatar’s waiting lap. His arse pressed back into Annatar’s groin, the Maia’s thigh slipped between his legs and prevented his closing them, and even as the realisation of that abasement broke through him, into his ear Annatar crooned, “You would ask now for my clemency? _Why_?” 

Soft were the Maia’s words, but they were merciless. Slowly, subtly he forced Celebrimbor to rock against him, to grind himself back into his groin, and as the elf lord flushed with the ignominy of it, with such false sweetness Annatar murmured, “I am only giving you what you wanted, my lord. Only ever what you so desire, what you _crave_ … Do you not think me generous for it?”

“N-no,” Celebrimbor bleated, and all the stronger did shame flood through him as Annatar suddenly slammed him back down, crushing his face into the bedclothes. But through that motion Annatar forced his hips to raise, his legs were nudged yet further apart, and how his protesting cry muted into a filthy groan of delight as he felt Annatar finally reach beneath him, as pale, cunning fingers ghosted up his achingly hard length. 

“W-wait,” he breathed, something in him yet screamed out its revulsion even as it was torn asunder with need. “Please… wait, pl – _oh_!”

Despite himself, despite the _wrongness_ of it all, lust screeched through Celebrimbor’s body, and into Annatar’s touch he thrust himself, he pressed his length into the Maia’s palm. He could feel the Maia’s laughter behind him, he could feel his mockery and his spite but with the screaming fulfilment of desires so long denied, Celebrimbor simply could not bring himself to care. Wantonly he rolled his hips, he coaxed Annatar’s fingers yet harder up his length, he threw himself into that sordid well of desire and into it he fell apart.

Softly Annatar stroked him, such gruelling little moans seeped over his lips as the Maia’s fingers swirled over the pre-come that leaked from his slit. Callously Annatar toyed with him, slicing thin white scratches over his arse just to hear him whimper, sweeping his hand down over the welt on his inner thigh just to feel him flinch, and each little humiliation only stoked the cinders of his desire to burn that much brighter. 

“Annatar,” he mewled, he rocked his hips back into the Maia’s touch, and a squeak of pain tumbled from his lips as suddenly Annatar pinched his arse. The muscles in his back knotted in such exquisite torment as slowly, lasciviously, Annatar trailed a constellation of tortured little wheals down his inner thighs, and with each pinch Celebrimbor jumped, his length twitched and slid in Annatar’s fingers as desire throbbed through him. “Annatar, p-please… oh, _ohhh_ …” 

His hands clenched into fists about the rumpled covers, he pressed his flushed cheeks into the bedclothes as if somehow that could stifle the moans that keened out of his throat. The Maia’s fingertips trailed agonisingly over his skin, and how Annatar sneered as Celebrimbor writhed beneath him. 

Heat glowed from the elf’s thighs; pink abrasions adorned him like perverse little roses kissed into his skin. Wetly, pathetically he panted, desperately he rolled his hips into Annatar’s palm as his lust consumed him, as it sent him trembling towards his peak.

“P-please… Annatar, please…” The words fell sloppily from Celebrimbor’s lips, he poured them half-muffled into the sheets in all of their indecency. “Please, please I – oh, oh fuck, _f-fuck_ …”

With a wordless groan of pleasure Celebrimbor came; he thrust himself into Annatar’s palm, slicking the Maia’s fingers in his seed. Such blistering pleasure wracked him, it swarmed through his innards and set his mind reeling; again and again he whimpered Annatar’s name as every little touch upon him sent him spiralling that much higher. 

Slowly that ecstasy slipped from him, yet scarcely had its final tremors passed when suddenly, violently, Annatar grasped him by the hips, and in a move far more suited to the battlefield than to bedplay tumbled him over. 

Upon his back then Celebrimbor sprawled, through flushed cheeks and parted lips he panted, his hair spreading as a dark, dishevelled tangle across the pillows as he glanced up at Annatar in confusion. For a moment the Maia simply beheld him, something awful glimmered behind those golden eyes, and even as Celebrimbor lay there sweaty and spent Annatar pushed his legs open once more.

“Annatar?” he breathed, instinctively he tried to pull away as the Maia’s hands came down upon him. “What – “

“Shh, my lord,” the Maia crooned; a soft, hateful smile rolled over his lips as with his left hand he stroked over the muscled lines of Celebrimbor’s abdomen, and the elf flinched at his touch. “Just spread your legs.”

“N-no,” Celebrimbor gasped; apprehension gripped him then and despite the awkward positioning he tried to scramble away. He had scarcely moved an inch when a gout of pain erupted through him, it split through his head like a hammer struck against some crumbling stone, and he stifled the urge to retch as he was forced to stillness. 

Annatar smiled superciliously down at him; the Maia’s golden aura seemed only to thicken in its glee as the pain numbed from him, as in its wake it left nothing but torpor in his limbs. Keenly then he felt Annatar’s will press upon him; a soft caress of puissance that lulled him into serenity but for the venom that prickled through it, the vicious compulsion that commanded his passivity.  

“ _Spread your legs for me, my lord_ ,” the Maia purred, and though his mind railed and screamed and struggled against the power that gripped him, he did as he was told. His thighs parted; a dark flush of humiliation coloured even the tips of his ears as Annatar’s fingers wandered over the reddened skin that was marked there already, and the stickiness that clung to him. He whimpered as Annatar moved fully between his legs then, as he forced them wider, and he stifled a gasp of mingled desire and horror as the Maia’s fingers brushed over his entrance. 

“No!” he breathed. “No, wai– “

A seething hiss of power severed Celebrimbor’s plaintive attempt at a protest, and hard then Annatar grabbed him. The elf’s left leg he levered upwards, and truly then Celebrimbor cried out as he felt two slickened fingers enter him.

He squirmed as Annatar breached him; he trembled with the degradation of it, as he felt the spill of his own seed used to ease the Maia’s path. A sharp grunt of pain punched over his lips as swiftly the Maia withdrew his fingers only to push them back in deeper; he shuddered upon the covers as ardour and shame swirled to a confusing blend within him. For despite this abasement; the gross ease with which Annatar’s fingers slid in and out of him, Celebrimbor’s lips peeled back into a grimace of pleasure, filthy as it was he felt himself open to Annatar’s touch, he felt himself relish in it. 

“F-fuck, Annatar,” he panted; he groaned out his lust as the Maia’s fingers nudged up against something exquisite inside of him. “Oh, fuck, _fuck_ , please…”

“What a good little slut you are, my lord,” Annatar purred. The words dripped like poisoned honey from his lips. “You even know to how beg.”

A whimper of pain, true pain, bolted over Celebrimbor’s lips as Annatar thrust a third finger up inside of him. For something fey seemed to grip the Maia then; the benevolent aura that enshrouded him seemed to curl away, it withered with the malice that festered below it, and with hatred in his eyes Annatar looked down upon Celebrimbor.

Knuckle-deep Annatar thrust inside the elf’s limp body, hard, hurting; his fingers parted slightly to force the elf to open. A retching breath caught in Celebrimbor’s throat, sudden tears of humiliation shone in his eyes as Annatar toyed with him, peeled him apart like he was nothing but a piece of meat for his pleasure. Yet how pitifully he moaned as with his left hand Annatar stroked up the elf’s half-erect length, his nails teasing their way up the swollen, shameful veins that were rising once more beneath his flesh. Truly then Celebrimbor squirmed, for no longer did Annatar’s touch delight him; every aching thrust, every insidious caress of the Maia’s fingers seemed only a debasement, only an injury.

“S-stop,” Celebrimbor whimpered, the breath jerked out of his lungs as Annatar rammed his fingers into him without care for gentleness. “Stop, Annatar, s-stop…” 

“Shh, my lord,” the Maia crooned; his voice like smoothest cream to drown the first sob that hitched through Celebrimbor’s chest as he spread the elf lord just a little bit wider. 

And after what seemed like a lifetime Annatar finally withdrew. Keeping Celebrimbor’s legs pinned apart about the outsides of his own thighs, quickly Annatar unlaced his breeches. Into his own hand he took himself, he flexed his hips as the elf shuddered pathetically before him, as his legs strained uselessly to close about Annatar’s thighs that kept him so crudely spread. Those futile little motions he rode, he grappled them, he blended them with those yet more pleasurable; memories of hot, hungry kisses, of the sweaty slide of skin upon skin, of the warm flush of his master’s breath upon his chest, of how indulgently his master had smiled at him as he had hurt him, fucked him, _adored_ him… 

Swiftly he coaxed himself to stiffness, he leaned over the whimpering elf before him and with such stinging concern in his voice he whispered, “Shh now, my lord. What need is there for tears?” 

The elf choked in horror as Annatar grasped him roughly about the hips, as he raised him upwards.

“Annatar, d-don’t… please, please don’t…” 

“Quiet, my lord,” the Maia crooned. “Quiet, now. I am only giving you what you wanted, what you asked of me. For this is what you want, such pleasure, such… ardour, decadence, greed. This is what you want. _This is what you are…”_  

“N-no…” 

Annatar’s hands crushed into Celebrimbor’s hips; a cold light glittered in his golden eyes, yet mellow and puissant was his voice as he breathed, “ _My lord. My pleading little lord who would beg for my touch, who craves it so ardently that he would try to take it by force. For that is all that you ever are, and all that you will ever be: the failure of your bloodline, the disgrace of your legacy. My tender, mewling little princeling who would cry out my name even as I undo him, who would lick my fingers clean for even the ghost of my affection. You know this, my lord, and you want this.”_  

Celebrimbor shuddered as Annatar brushed up against his abused entrance; he choked back a sob as the Maia positioned himself. 

“ _You belong to me_.” 

With one sinuous thrust Annatar sheathed himself to his hilt, and oh how the elf _screamed_ as he was split apart. Yet Annatar rode the frantic clench of muscles that sought to deny him, quickly he found his rhythm, and each hard, slow thrust up inside of the elf’s body sent a grunt of pain skidding out over Celebrimbor’s lips. 

Each slam of the Maia up inside of him shoved him an inch or two across the sheets; each grind of flesh into flesh became sore, hurting; what unwise remnants of lust or affection Celebrimbor yet held within him were banished with the horrific sense of violation. Tears prickled behind his eyes as Annatar fucked him, as the Maia used him, and perhaps more than anything that ruthless sensation truly twisted the knife in his guts. 

Yet finally, _finally_ Annatar’s steady breathing changed to hot, ugly pants; each aching thrust became more urgent, more savage, and at last Celebrimbor felt the wet spill of seed up inside of him. 

He moaned as Annatar withdrew himself, limply he lay upon the bed as still the Maia held him. It was just easier not to fight, he thought distantly. Annatar’s words clouded their poisonous way through his mind: he wanted this, he _did_ , truly he did.

So desperately he tried to convince himself of their truth as Annatar dipped once more between his thighs.

He gasped as the Maia’s lips met welted skin; he whimpered as slowly, possessively, Annatar planted three blistered love-bites upon his inner thigh. The marks stood upon him like bloodied roses, blurred and speckled beneath his skin. They shone so vividly against the creamy whiteness of the Maia’s seed that trickled from him, that daubed him in nothing but shame.

“ _You belong to me_ ,” the Maia breathed, and helplessly Celebrimbor nodded, his chin crinkled and his eyes full of hot, stupid tears.

Coldly then Annatar moved aside; he shrugged himself back into his breeches as Celebrimbor lay there naked and shivering before him, and whether it was blank shock or the lingering effects of his spellcraft that prevented the elf from moving even to cover himself, Annatar cared little. 

A cheap fuck anyway, the Maia thought, and a sneer contorted his bruised cheek as he turned aside, as he walked to the door and tugged it open.

Yet he could not quite stifle the vindictive delight that swelled within him as he left the elf lord there aching, for one glorious moment stripped of his arrogance and his splendour and laid bare like the snivelling wretch that he was. 

Nothing but vile, slippery glee filled Annatar’s heart as finally he turned away, and behind him he heard Celebrimbor softly begin to cry.

 

* * *

 

The sunlight shone wearily through a haze of grimy cloud as the Council of Ost-in-Edhil trickled in to their late-morning assembly. The visiting lords of the Edain sat arranged at tables set about the grand chamber, their newly gifted rings borne proudly across many a finger. Together united in friendship and steered by Celebrimbor and his city’s council, they would devise a strategy to combat the encroaching blight that gnawed at the soil, and strive to make safe the lands from the unseen terrors that stalked them. 

Towards the doors of the council chamber Annatar strode, a sheaf of parchment and a spare quill tucked neatly under his arm. Formally he was attired, but a high collared shirt and the honeyed waves of hair that cascaded down his back did painfully little to disguise the bruise that stood upon his cheekbone. The purpled mark blurred over his face from where the elf lord had struck him, and spitefully he bore the wound. Let the elf’s own actions undermine him, Annatar had thought as he quit his bedchamber that morn, let others among his court see him truly, and let mistrust only grease the mechanisms of his ruin. 

With gratifying swiftness Annatar saw his designs take effect, for from the opposing end of the hallway Corannon hailed him. The smith was still faintly soot-blasted from the forges, yet had had forsaken his stained leathers for more respectable clothing, and cheerfully he bade Annatar good day. Before the juncture of the doors they met, and as Annatar grasped Corannon’s hand in friendship, idle amusement swelled in him as he saw the elf’s brows furrow.

“My, Annatar,” Corannon snorted; disparagingly he eyed the bruise upon the Maia’s cheek. Yet as truly he glimpsed its depth, all shattered capillaries and sore flesh, more sober grew his tone. “What happened to you?” 

Thinly Annatar smiled, with feigned innocence he reached one hand up to ghost over the tender flesh of his cheek. “It’s nothing…” he said sadly. “Just… just a disagreement…”

The glimmering aura about him seemed for an instant to flicker, to fade, and melancholy spilled suddenly through Corannon’s heart. But as he opened his mouth to offer some word of condolence, Celebrimbor rounded the far corner of the corridor, and in dawning realisation Corannon beheld Annatar’s reaction. For the Maia seemed almost to flinch: a slight, miserable quirk pulled at his lips, and hurriedly he moved his hand from his face and stood rigidly as the lord passed them by. 

“Worry not, Corannon,” the Maia murmured; emptily he gazed upon Celebrimbor’s retreating back, and at the bleakness in his eyes Corannon’s heart blazed with concern. “We… we found our resolution…” 

“Annatar…” Corannon began, yet stiffly he faltered. It was hardly his place to pry into his lord’s private affairs, yet something so unsettlingly forlorn shivered in Annatar’s eyes, in _his friend’s_ eyes. Something dejected, something vulnerable clung to Annatar’s very being, and the desperate urge to protect him, to make right whatever had been set wrong suddenly skewered through Corannon’s heart. “What…” he continued awkwardly, “what exactly was the nature of your… _resolution_?” 

“It matters not…” 

Annatar turned unhappily aside, he moved to step past Corannon and onwards into the hall. And such victory crowed within him as quickly he was halted, as the elf laid one supplicating hand upon his shoulder. 

“If something has happened between yourself and my lord then I would have you tell me,” Corannon said gravely. “For long years now I have been Celebrimbor’s friend also, and for years longer I have known him, and his father…” Corannon’s dark eyes flitted for an instant to the bruise upon Annatar’s cheek, and dismayed then was his tone. “Do not think me blind to his… proclivities. To what those of that bloodline are capable of.” 

“It was nothing, Corannon,” Annatar replied distantly, and with a wince he shrugged the elf aside. “A moment of rashness, nothing more…” 

“If you say so,” Corannon murmured, and darkly he squinted through the aperture of the doors to where Celebrimbor was ascending to his seat at the head of the chamber. A pall of unease settled over him as he trailed Annatar through the doors, and glancing to the Maia and his lord as he took his place at the table upon Celebrimbor’s immediate left, the frostiness between them was unmistakeable.

Celebrimbor bridled as Annatar slid into the chair upon his right; he glanced to the bruise borne starkly upon the Maia’s cheek and coldly then he looked away. Yet for the rancour that curdled in the air between them, as the last of the foreign lords entered the hall and the doors were swung shut behind them, Celebrimbor straightened to the full height of his nobility upon the high chair, and cordially he called the meeting to a start. 

Discourse upon renewed trade agreements, and supply routes from the lords whose lands were yet to be truly beleaguered, ebbed and flowed; debates flourished upon the merits of sending parcels of goods up from the South by clippers across the Bay of Belfalas and Belegaer’s waves, then by barge upriver from the port of Lond Daer, or whether it would be more prudent to follow the Harad Road northwest from its sandy origins, through the rolling plains of Rohan to join the North-South Road at the Fords of Isen. Consensus grew scattered, for though sea-trade demanded the benevolence of the fickle winds and mariner’s skill beyond the means of the desert lords, the roads were become dangerous, and more treacherous yet as winter drew near and the shadows grew long.

Armed parties of travellers and merchants alike were snatched from their campfires by the cloud-scudded light of the moon, with nothing but bloodied furrows scraped across the soil to mark their passing, and the wet crunch of bones in the haunted passes of the mountains. Ravens cawed and hopped among spoiling goods, they squabbled over the rotting entrails of men and horses left to fester by the roadside, and meanly they snapped at any who might dare to pass them before rising like a black pestilence upon the wind. 

Yet slowly dissent was assuaged, and augmented in strength and will by the rings of power that glittered upon fingers both gaunt and stocky, the Edain lords pledged their aid and counsel in ways that they might to combat the blight. Graciously Celebrimbor accepted the lords’ fealties as they were sworn, yet beside him Annatar kept only fleeting note of proceedings upon his parchment, and a rich smile curved across his lips. For all too easily he heard the lies slip over gilded tongues; pale, cunning eyes crept to him, subtle smirks curled over dusky lips, rings of lapis and citrine and onyx glinted like little splinters of his malice upon their lords’ fingers, and sooner or later the rest would succumb.

Slowly the knots of his power impressed into each ring would swell, would corrode the will of the elf’s _fëa_ and replace it with nothing but jealousy, with greed and avarice and ruin. Agreements made in friendship would be forgotten, would be stripped away; those rings would gnaw all lordliness from their keeper’s minds, it would render them hollow, nothing but vessels for his own command, brittle and yet so exquisitely malleable. One by one, they would forsake their people, they would bow before him like puissant little slaves, gorged on their own arrogance and bound in thrall by nothing but a simple band of metal.

At last the company of lords was dissembled, and atop the emptying hall Annatar leant contemplatively back in his chair. Corannon cast a worried glance at him, but smoothly he smiled back as the smith took his leave. Pleasantly idle were his thoughts as the lords and courtiers departed, already their steps seemed fractionally more tuneful to his malevolent drum, but he became gradually aware of Celebrimbor’s gaze resting upon him. 

For a few moments longer he regarded the retreating lords. Let the elf squirm, so he thought fit, and well his patience was rewarded. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Celebrimbor’s voice was low, tender; it was possessed of a sorrowful lyricism as his gaze skated the dark bruise upon the Maia’s cheek. Earnestly, pathetically, he reached out towards Annatar’s side; he came to a painful halt with the fingers of his right hand scant inches from the Maia’s left wrist as Annatar’s words bristled through him.

 _You will not touch me_. They dredged up only shame for their necessity.

“For… for last night, I – I’m so sorry, Annatar…”

“You’re sorry?” The Maia regarded him blandly, and a sneer of disdain for an instant flickered across his face. Mellowed were his words, though they jarred through Celebrimbor’s mind. “Then it is forgiven, my lord. Of course, it is forgiven. You asked for my absolution, and perhaps now you are coming to deserve it.” 

“What?” Celebrimbor frowned as suddenly Annatar arose, as he abruptly gathered up his belongings and made to depart. “Annatar, wait -” 

“Let us not dwell upon the past, my lord,” the Maia purred, and as he turned aside, a great ribbon of sunlight spilled across his face. It limned him in its radiance, and yet that bruise stood like a black mark of sin upon him, and ashamedly Celebrimbor looked away. “It is ill becoming. Rather, think upon what the future might bring, whether in beauty or in pain.” 

With those fey words left ringing in Celebrimbor’s ears Annatar swiftly departed, and the elf’s eyes followed every step that he took across the empty marble. 

 

* * *

 

The weeks rolled onwards, and as the first dreary veils of sleet began to drizzle down from the wintery skies, the Edain lords gradually dispersed back to their lonely corners of the world. By road and by barge they took their cautious leaves, and Celebrimbor sent retinues of his city guard to accompany their parties to the borders of Hollin, grim spears or strung bows in their hands. For as the winter nights drew in so too lengthened the darkness, and in it monsters thrived. Beasts of hideous shape were glimpsed between the clefts of the mist-strangled hills, even unto the roots of the distant Hithaeglir guttural cries scraped over the bleak moors, and as those foul ululations swept even over Ost-in-Edhil’s fortified walls, the goodly folk of that city trembled in their beds.

Sleet turned to brittle frost upon the turrets of Celebrimbor’s noble house, yet for the chill of the weather, slowly the iciness between himself and Annatar began to thaw. For weeks they had fenced around each other, all awkward smiles and half-finished words. But as that horrible bruise upon Annatar’s cheek faded, as the Maia renewed his works within the Gwaith-i-Mírdain’s halls, taking up his place again within Celebrimbor’s own workroom, a tenuous normalcy reasserted itself about them. 

Never did Celebrimbor quite come to articulate the feelings that clotted inside of him; of shame, abhorrence, of the awful clamouring lust that in the end won out, that banished all tempered thoughts in the wake of its greed. It clawed at his heart every time Annatar sauntered through his doorway with a new piece of artistry in hand, and slowly things were eroded that should have remained forever stalwart. Though keenly he remembered the fury in Annatar’s eyes that night, violation and pleasure mingled into one confused tangle within him, laced still in Annatar’s puissance were those feelings that ever strove to undermine him, snare him, bind him. 

Slowly, subtly that abhorrence began to fade, it was replaced instead with an uncertain ardour, a cloying desire that seemed to scrape beneath the skin. 

Such thoughts ever nipped at him, and to evade their teeth Celebrimbor threw himself into his industry. At Annatar’s insistence he turned his mind to the smithying of rings to be gifted to the Hadhodrim, the lords of carven stone under their lofty mountains. Poor diplomacy it would seem to offer such mighty boons of friendship to one race and not another, Annatar had murmured into his ear, and readily Celebrimbor agreed with the sense in his words. Trade with the Gonnhirrim’s cities, while chiefly that of Khazad-dûm but still those yet further afield, had lined Ost-in-Edhil’s coffers with riches, and well should such friendship be rewarded. 

Seven rings of power then Celebrimbor laboured upon, one each for the lord of the noble Dwarf families descended from Aulë’s original blaspheme, and how miserably ironic Annatar thought it as he aided the elf in his works.

Their entire race was a mistake, a blemish upon the works of the One, and yet still they were allotted their right to live. A place was made for them in the annals of the world, yet when in his youth he had made a little mechanical creature of his own to please himself, a little clockwork thing of squeaking fur and whirring heart, how cruelly it was whisked from his hands. How brutally they snatched it, those fickle deities who would permit one creation and yet condemn another. Ticking and frightened his little thing had crawled to him, and they had flung it upon the flames to burn. 

He had watched it melt, watched its limbs snap and warp even as it scrabbled to tear itself free, he had heard it _scream_ for him as he was forced to betray it. As his patron had held him fast and forced him to watch, truly then had the first splinters of hatred kindled in his heart, and in the long millennia since they had only festered. 

To the Gonnhirrim’s strongholds messengers bearing Celebrimbor’s noble sigil were sent riding, and as the swift hooves of their mounts pounded over the miles to their gates, Celebrimbor worked upon his gifts. Into the forges of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain he retreated, and like a sly shadow haunting his steps, in veiled enmity Annatar would follow.

“What do you think of it?” Celebrimbor asked one day, turning from the red glower of the forge behind him. A stout ring of burnished gold he held aloft in a gloved hand, and with narrowed eyes he appraised it.

From his nonchalant lean against the warm bricks that lined the furnace’s maw, Anntar’s head tilted, and lazily he appraised the trinket in Celebrimbor’s hand. A condescending smirk curled over his lips, and without word he roused himself, sauntering across the room and absently toying with the metallurgic instruments that lay strewn across a workbench nearby. 

Over tongs, over clamps, over serrated little blades he ran his fingers, and how eagerly he longed to wield them, to see them puncture through metal and flesh alike, to see the elf’s skin part so deliciously beneath them. Wistfully he turned aside from that temptation, yet amid the detritus a length of ribbon lay coiled, and this he picked up, weaving it through the fingers of his left hand and about his wrist as Celebrimbor cleared his throat. 

“Well,” the elf demanded, the ring gleaming now upon his bare palm as he cast his glove aside, and Annatar’s lips pursed at the boldness in his voice. “What do you think of it?” 

“It is a _marvel_ , my lord,” the Maia replied. The words were greasy upon his tongue.

“Is that it?” the elf said sharply, and irksomely Annatar looked back at him. “Do you have nothing else to say? That is unlike you, Annatar. Typically you are overflowing with advice, whether looked for or no. Or indeed, criticisms.” Something gluttonous bled into the elf’s tone then, something in his mood changed and slyly he continued, “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” 

Well indeed Tevildo, self-proclaimed Prince of Angband and feline master of its kitchens, would have supped upon the elf’s tongue torn bloody and raw from his throat, but quickly Annatar batted such lecherous thoughts aside. 

“Did I not say, my lord,” he purred, and with every ounce of thinning patience within him he fought to disguise the ire in his tone. “Truly, you have surpassed yourself in competency.” 

Something strange rolled in the Maia’s tone, sordid temptation squirmed in Celebrimbor’s guts, and he laid the ring aside.

“Is that flattery?” he pronounced, his voice a low murmur against the muted roar of the furnace. Forward then he stepped, and framed against the glowing coals, his eyes gleamed like crucibles of dark, writhing flames. Yet where he half-expected Annatar to recoil from him, to rebuke him, motionless the Maia stood, leaning coyly against the workbench with a serene expression illumined across his handsome face. 

Desire rushed through Celebrimbor’s innards; recklessly, heedlessly it spurred him forward, and it seemed as if hot cinders of lust had been flicked along the inside of his chest as with each of his steps Annatar’s fingers drummed a slow, salacious rhythm upon the bench top. Those beats resounded within his skull, they stirred up things that he would sooner ignore; a night of pain, of hurting, of abuse, and yet so seductively Annatar looked to him. For a moment Celebrimbor hesitated, the gleam in the Maia’s smile seemed all too predatory, yet need twisted inside of him.

A starving, feral light poured into his eyes, and how Annatar revelled in the glory of it.

Suddenly the elf snatched for him, he lunged forward to grasp him, hold him, force him, fuck him; but with painful ease Annatar sidestepped him. He left Celebrimbor’s audacious hands curling on air.

“Oh, Tyelpë,” Annatar murmured, so gloatingly sorrowful was his tone as he threw a swell of puissance behind it. The embers of the furnace glowed; a pulse of light threw the room into rich, bleeding redness. “You forget your place.”  

“Nay, Annatar,” Celebrimbor breathed; though his mouth seemed suddenly coated in the taste of metal he glared at the Maia before him. “Perhaps you forget yours.”

For perhaps it was the menace in the Maia’s voice, or the insolent grin cleaving over his face, but something rose with Celebrimbor then, an ancient ghost of anger seized him and it filled him with its power. He felt the Maia’s will redouble upon him, but with sudden puissance to match he thrust it clean aside. 

“Do not presume to threaten me,” Celebrimbor growled, proud and stern he stood; yet coolly the Maia smirked at him. And with a force that nearly drove the breath from his lungs, fury ripped up from Celebrimbor’s stomach; Annatar’s impetuousness was suddenly all too galling, and before he even knew quite what he intended he whipped about, his hands came up and snared through the lapels of Annatar’s shirt, and after one savage moment of torsion he slammed Annatar backwards. Shock flared in the Maia’s eyes as his head crunched back into the wall, and such delicious _victory_ spiralled through Celebrimbor then that he thought he might drown in it.  

“What are you going to do?” he sneered; foiled, corrupted lust spurred him far beyond decorum as he ran his hand up the Maia’s neck, as one finger lingered possessively upon his lips. With such vindictive delight he felt Annatar’s breath quicken against him, below him; he rolled out his shoulders with the pleasure of it, pressing his bulk a little more firmly into Annatar’s slimmer frame and crushing the Maia back against the wall.

“It’s your move, little Maia,” he growled; blind desire dripping from his teeth. “What are you going to do?” His thigh pushed between Annatar’s legs, forcibly he parted them as he pressed himself yet closer, and hungrily he breathed, “Are you going to force me? Are you going to make me beg?”

Without care for a reply his lips crushed onto Annatar’s in a scornful, voluptuous kiss, and finally he felt the Maia’s response. For swiftly Annatar’s hands groped upwards, such careless arousal stabbed through Celebrimbor as he pressed himself into that motion, but swiftly he found himself faltering. For where that touch should have been submissive; been tender and fragile and shivering for him, Annatar’s nails raked up his neck.

Suddenly Annatar’s lips scorched against his own; a swell of blackest puissance seethed through the room, and it sent Celebrimbor reeling in its clamour.

His stomach clenched; with Annatar’s hands pressing him still into their kiss it was all that he could do not to gag as unbidden desire was ripped up from his stomach, as it clawed and rent like a physical presence within him, ruinous in its urgency. Suddenly then Annatar relinquished him, their lips came unlocked, and far, _far_ beyond voluntary control Celebrimbor dropped hard to his knees. Black ardour howled in his stomach, it scratched and it _burned_ ; it left him panting up at Annatar like a bitch in heat. 

For in such aching perfection Annatar loomed over him, gentle and golden and untouchable; and he was but a cringing dog at his feet, unworthy even to lick his boots. But then how awfully the Maia smiled, that illusion shattered, and something else Annatar became; beautiful and yet rotted, foul and corrupt and _irresistible_ , and desire wrenched so hard in Celebrimbor’s stomach that he keened with the ache of it.

“Hush, my lord,” Annatar crooned; he stroked his nails over Celebrimbor’s face, and thin white scratches bloomed in the wake of his fingers. How pitifully the elf whined for him, gasped for him; how deliciously he shook as his black will superseded even the enormity of the elf’s arrogance and bound him to obedience. 

“Come,” Annatar breathed at last, slightly he relaxed the clench of his power upon the elf and how wretchedly Celebrimbor scrambled to attention before him, his irises blown wide with hopeless, adoring lust. “You see,” the Maia murmured; slyly he uncoiled the ribbon wound about his left hand, and with his right he tilted the elf’s chin further upwards. “Submission can be such a gentle thing, in the end. It can be so easy…” 

And how Celebrimbor shivered as Annatar looped that ribbon about his neck; he trembled with desire as the Maia tightened it, as he tied it in a beautiful bow at his throat. 

Celebrimbor moaned as Annatar withdrew from him; so kind was his touch, so caring, so loving, and how he _craved_ it; so perfect was the ribbon like a gentle collar about his neck, so pretty was the bow beneath his quivering jaw. Into the palms of his hands held demurely by his sides Celebrimbor’s nails dug bloodied crescent-moons as he nuzzled his face into the Maia’s retreating fingers, as wordlessly he begged for his affection.

So wondrously, so generously then Annatar indulged him; each touch of those cunning fingers across his skin was as a searing brand pressed to him, but oh how Celebrimbor _ached_ for him.

A scoff of laughter echoed from Annatar’s throat as more fervently Celebrimbor nudged his face into his hand, as so utterly he abased himself, and as a man might bestow a dainty upon his whimpering pet, Annatar took the elf’s cheek and raised his head. Tender was his touch, but what scorn rolled in his voice as at last he purred, “ _Such a clever boy, aren’t you?”_

Crowned in all of their indignity those words hovered upon the air, and with a simmering smirk Annatar took his leave. Sweetly his hands seemed to linger upon Celebrimbor’s cheek as he stepped aside, and the elf arched himself to follow the fleeting ghost of that sensation. 

Yet cold and alone amid the dimming embers of his forge Annatar left him, a bow about his neck and shivering upon his knees.

 

* * *

 

The presentation of the Dwarven rings was no modest affair. The storemasters fretted over their dwindling supplies as barrels of mead and wine were divulged from the cellars, followed by steaming platters of cured meats gently smoked anew, and heaped plates of breads, cakes and scones laid generously over the low tables of the grand hall. Once more Celebrimbor’s house was bedecked in ceremonial finery, and amid the Elven sigils, the seven banners of the noble lineages of the Gonnhirrim unfurled proudly from the ceiling.

Eagerly the dwarf lords had answered Celebrimbor’s entreaties of friendship, and in splendour befitting their indomitable race they came forth from their delvings with parties of their kindred. Axes, maces, and thick hexagonal shields were borne across stout arms as the four families that dwelt in the far distant Orocarni mountain range came forth, and from the desolate wilds beyond the lands of Rhûn they issued forth clad in gear of war. Upon squat, goat-like creatures some rode, or others upon the stunted bison native to those lands, and upon the barren plains at the juncture of the rivers Carnen and Celduin the families met, and through the sparse lands of Rhovanion they marched west in great company. 

Through the Greenwood they came; with ivory horns they announced themselves upon the borders of Oropher’s kingdom to the north, and they passed along the Old Forest Road at the borders of his heartlands, as might all travellers who came in friendship. The Sindar of that realm were yet strong and haughty, and from concealed boughs amid their great forest they kept a vigilant watch upon the Road, but as the Dwarves marched with Celebrimbor’s name upon their lips, they allowed them their passage. Over the fords of the Anduin some leagues south of the roaring Carrock they waded the river, through secret passages long since delved through the Hithaeglir by their forefathers they marched, until at last collected in company upon the eastern banks of the Bruinen they rallied themselves once more. South into Noldorin lands they descended, and through the craggy fells of Hollin they passed in strength of arms unparalleled to Ost-in-Edhil’s northern gates, guided by Celebrimbor’s scouts who had met them amid the fractured hills and bade them welcome. 

Arduous had been their march, even for so hardy a race, for no short distance had they come, and by night their vigils were ceaseless. Their goats bleated restlessly in the haunted hollows of the hills, and their bison lowed mournfully as snow drifted down from the skies, yet without unhappy incident they arrived to the city, and for that Celebrimbor was gladdened.

The three families from Moria travelled far more swiftly. By sumptuous barges upon the slow Sirannon they had come, and their companies were armed only lightly. Composite short-bows of ivory and the hoary hide of some subterranean beast were held in _mithril_ -gauntleted hands, for though the waters of the sickly river frothed and bubbled against the hulls of their craft, no fell beast yet dared the perilous swim across the current. Safely then they passed the waterways, and the grilled entrance to Ost-in-Edhil’s eastern docks dropped sharply behind them as they were ensconced into the city’s secure embrace. 

Wary was the entrance of some of the Hadhodrim into Celebrimbor’s halls: still some clutched the wounds of history close to their hearts, and suspicious were their glances even as they feasted, and they kept their knives within easy reach. Yet needless was their caution, for with genuine warmth they were received, and soon enough laughter and talk echoed boisterously about the hall.

Upon a time, a herald called for quiet amid the raucous chatter, and loftily Celebrimbor stood from his chair upon the dais. With a placid smile upon his face Annatar watched as the elf lord stepped before the high table, as he made an elegant gesture of friendship to nobles and common-folk alike who graced his hall this night, and then commenced a short speech upon his purposes for convening such a giving of gifts. Such prattling Annatar endured, he toyed with his goblet of wine and tried to prevent his smile from becoming unduly sardonic as the elf poured out his ambition. But with far more interest then he roused himself as the giving of the rings commenced.

Upon Celebrimbor’s left stood not Corannon but Narvi, most eminent of the few Hadhodrim smiths who had come to reside amid the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and garbed in a ceremonial corslet of polished livery he proudly bore the seven Dwarven rings upon a velvet cushion. Contemplatively Annatar gazed at them, unsullied but for the little seed of hatred he had planted within each, and how ardently he bade them give swift fruit to his labours. 

At the herald’s bidding, the dwarf lords stepped forward in turn, and first among them came Durin Longbeard: King of the Dwarrowdelf and of Khazad-dûm, wealthiest and most powerful of the Dwarf lords upon Arda. Clad in cloth of gold and richest sapphire he ascended the dais, his plaited beard dripping with interwoven seams of gemstones, and to the ancient among their kindred it was said that in that hour the Dwarrowdelf’s king was as Durin the Deathless come again to Arda’s shores in might and in splendour. Narvi bowed low as the lord ascended the dais, a dazzling crown of geometric design laid upon his brow, and youthful and merry was the king’s smile as Celebrimbor laid a ring set with a crystal of deep amethyst upon his forefinger.

Long had their peoples been friendly; both Noldo and Dwarrow alike had strove hard for the unlikely alliance between their realms, and at this recognition of such friendship now Durin smiled as the ring glittered splendidly upon his finger. Years before, Celebrimbor had aided in the forging of the eastern gates of his realm; inlaid with Elvish _ithildin_ were the doors that Narvi had carved, and from such a cooperative gesture had stemmed only prosperity for both their peoples. A few respectful words in Khuzdûl Celebrimbor offered, broadly he smiled down at Durin, and with a bark of cheerful laughter the dwarf stepped aside. 

To Luin Firebeard, the venerable lord once of Nogrod in its prime, was gifted a thick ring of green jade, its band an unbroken circlet of stone. Deeply he bowed before Celebrimbor as he accepted the ring, and the sharp tattoos that cleft over his chin and forehead crinkled as he grinned up at the elf lord. Through bushy eyebrows as wild as flame he appraised the ring, and the bands of _mithril_ woven through the ruddy thicket of his beard flashed as he smiled approvingly at the trinket upon his finger.

Then ascended Tor Broadbeam, ruler of Belegost while that city had stood, and retreated to Moria in the wake of its ruin. Luin clapped him upon a chubby arm as the lord wobbled to his feet before Celebrimbor; his rotund cheeks flushed a bright pink beneath round, blue eyes. His mail was of overlapping azurite scales, a kingly heirloom of Belegost’s quarries, and it strained as the lord heaved himself fully upright. Yet grandly at last he stood, indefatigable as the warlike boars that he bred in his great holds beneath the mountains. To him was presented a chunky ring of hematite, and graciously he thanked Celebrimbor for the boon.     

Garbed in an armoured headdress of bristling lames of steel stepped forth Khemmel Ironfist, Scourge of Helcar’s Abyss and Warmonger of the East, feared dwarrowdam of the Ironfists, who alone among the families of the Gonnhirrim passed their rule down through matriarchal lineage. From Orja, who awoke alongside Khairún Ironfist from Mahal’s sleep millennia ago, Khemmel claimed her birthright, and with eyes limned in streaks of blood-red ochre she squinted fiercely up at Celebrimbor. For a moment she glared at him, but as she raised her hand to him her mood softened, and a thin smile curved over her lips as the elf set a slender band of silver set with a snowflaked obsidian gem about her scarred forefinger.

Behind her came Storn Stiffbeard, the young lord of the northernmost caverns beneath the Orocarni’s peaks. Proudly he held himself, but being only newly come to lordship following the peaceful demise of his father, he stood a little nervously before Celebrimbor. The flint arrowheads that capped the ends of his moustache swung as he bowed stiffly before the elf, but warmly he smiled as Celebrimbor raised him up. Offering a few fortifying words in Khuzdûl, Celebrimbor laid an elegant ring of strawberry quartz upon the dwarf’s finger, and admiringly Storn gazed at it before bowing once more before the elf.

Oroth Blacklock, the thaumaturge-lord of the East moved forward then. Wispy robes of sable gauze fluttered atop a burnished chainmail shirt, and the lower half of his face was veiled in a cloth patterned with runic designs as he stepped before Celebrimbor. An invocation of Mahal’s benevolence he whispered in a throaty dialect, his eyes closed and the sacred kohl markings across his brow smudging as he spoke. The gold thread bound through his dreadlocked hair glinted as that earthy puissance innervated them, and behind the proceedings Annatar took a hasty gulp of wine as that foreign power lapped uncomfortably at him. Yet soon the dwarf’s prayer faded, and a ring of chalcedony was placed upon his finger, its band milky blue and handsome against his dusky skin. 

Last of all came Gorak Stonefoot, lord over the scattered, tribal peoples who populated the southernmost reaches of the Orocarni. Clad in patterned leather hide and bone-crowned he stood before Celebrimbor, and the thick metal piercings that punctured his eyebrows and lips gleamed as he was gifted a mighty gold ring inlaid with an orange garnet. Gratefully it was accepted, it nestled amid the skulls of many a tiny creature cracked and broken and worn across Gorak’s fingers as trophies, and with that final presentation a great cheer broke through the hall.

Slowly the roar faded, and attentions returned to feasting and merriment. Celebrimbor took his place again at the high table, and a sudden thrill of excitement rattled through his lungs as Annatar turned brightly to him.

“It was well done, my lord,” the Maia said jovially, and though light his tone, a great swell of happiness flooded through Celebrimbor’s heart at the mere hint of his praise. The tips of his ears flushed a delicate pink, and bashfully he smiled down into his goblet of wine. His gaze up from its rim, and so luxurious was Annatar’s smile, so fair and radiant was the aura that shrouded him that it stole the words of thanks clean from Celebrimbor’s throat. 

Adoringly he looked to the Maia, his dark eyes skated over Annatar’s strong chest, over the cleft of tendons at his throat, over the glittering rings that clustered upon his own fingers. Yet to Annatar’s throat Celebrimbor’s eyes were drawn back; they hovered upon the great ruby threaded upon a net of silver metalwork that glinted above Annatar’s lapel, and joy skimmed through Celebrimbor’s heart to see it. 

“You wore it,” he murmured; he took a long draught of wine as he beheld the necklace about Annatar’s throat, _his_ necklace, made and gifted years before and long thought lost to Annatar’s disfavour.

“It was a handsome gift,” Annatar said softly, and moved by such tender caprice he reached to envelop Celebrimbor’s left hand within his right. The cold metal of rings pressed into Celebrimbor’s palm, but the elf barely felt it for the pleasure that raced through him in such piteous gratitude for Annatar’s touch. “And admiringly given. Why then should I spurn it?”

“You’re impossible,” Celebrimbor sighed, ruefully he smiled, but oh what an unseemly gasp ripped out of his throat then as Annatar withdrew his hold, as he slipped it instead beneath the tabletop and ran his hand down Celebrimbor’s thigh. 

About the elf’s knee he squeezed suddenly, and such delight trilled in him as Celebrimbor jumped, as his strangled squeak of surprise was lost into the general noise of the hall. Merrily Annatar watched as a half-playful scowl twisted over Celebrimbor’s brow, and hard he raked his nails back up the elf’s thigh, leaving rumpled furrows across the velvet of his breeches. 

“Don’t…” Celebrimbor breathed, nervously he glanced to the hall’s populace as well concealed from casual view Annatar tapped his fingers lasciviously upon his upper thigh. “Not here…”

Plaintive was the elf’s whimper, but how swiftly his body undid him. For Annatar’s hand slipped subtly to his groin, through the soft cloth of his breeches the Maia palmed him, and powerless Celebrimbor was to restrain the sigh of pleasure that emanated from his parted lips. 

“Composure, my lord,” Annatar smiled mischievously. A little harder he stroked, and slowly Celebrimbor flushed crimson as he felt the traitorous stirrings of flesh coaxed to attention. “It is the foundation of diplomacy, after all…” 

The Maia’s words were but a pleasurable hum in his ears; hot waves of desire rippled up through him as more firmly Annatar cupped him, teased him. A throaty moan loosed from him as those sensations only built, hard he gripped into the edge of the table in order to retain some sort of lordly poise, yet his eyes were glazed with lust as Annatar touched him anew. 

Instinctively his thighs parted, his fingertips showed white with the pressure of his grip as he strove for self-control. It was _debased_ , he thought desperately, it was sick, he would not frot himself against Annatar’s hand like some wanton whore, not here, not _ever_ , but how the crude desires that seized him begged their difference. Into Annatar’s touch he ground himself; he rolled his hips into the Maia’s palm, and desperately he bit back the scandalous moan that welled up in his throat as – 

“Annatar!”

Hard Dwarven inflections rapped out the Maia’s name, and instantly Annatar straightened. An indignant noise somewhere between a choke and a moan emanated from Celebrimbor as the Maia withdrew from him utterly, and hastily the elf lord lunged for his goblet of wine and buried his flaming cheeks within it. Yet the source of their interruption did not seem to mind, indeed she scarcely paid heed to Celebrimbor’s strange motion and instead beamed only at Annatar.

“My lady Aldvís,” Annatar smiled in return, and such genuine happiness seemed to suffuse him as he laid eyes upon the dwarrowdam that Celebrimbor near seethed with jealousy to behold it. With a neat flourish the Maia stood, quickly he rounded the table to stand before Aldvís upon the steps of the dais, and he bowed low before her.

“Your radiance remains unchanged with the passing of the years, my lady,” Annatar purred, and a giggle dimpled Aldvís’ rosy cheeks as Annatar took her hand within his own and laid an elegant kiss upon her knuckles.

“You are too bold, Annatar!” Aldvís exclaimed, her cheeks glowed as Annatar grinned at her then, and a baleful harrumph of envy emanated from somewhere behind them as Celebrimbor pointedly turned his attentions elsewhere. Ignoring the elf’s pouting, cheekily Annatar replied, “For one so fair as my lady Aldvís, nothing but boldness would ever suit.” 

A peal of laughter she sent spiralling towards the ceiling, and happily she took Annatar’s arm as it was offered, and together they skirted the hall in pleasant conversation.

“You are kept well, my lady?” Annatar enquired at length, and the gold-capped ends of her elegant beard twinkled as she nodded up at him.

“We continue, so my people say. But I am well, yes. I come with my lord Durin to see these lands once more, as noble and jewel-smith among his people. I come to see these rings that you and your lord have made.” A wry smile turned the edges of her lips, and at Annatar she cocked an eyebrow. “Tell me, you think them fairer than mine that I have made?” 

To that Annatar was mute, an almost nervous quirk flitted over his face, and at him then Aldvís chuckled.

“Come,” she said, and companionably she patted him upon the arm. “I did not mean offense.”

“I took none, my lady,” the Maia replied, and their conversation ebbed as they were enveloped into a lively tangle of Tor Broadbeam’s boar-riders. Once safely extricated, and with a flagon of Dwarven whiskey apiece in hand, both Annatar and Aldvís came to a sheltered alcove near the far doors of the hall, and there they idled.

The liquor’s spice tingled pleasantly down Annatar’s throat, and expansively he surveyed the hall, his auric gaze coming to a rest upon the guards who stood at attention about several parties of the Orocarni-dwellers. Thickly mailed in both chain and plate they were, and soon enough Aldvís followed Annatar’s line of sight.

“You have heard news here, then?” she sighed, and sadly she looked upon the armed parties of her kindred. “Of the East?” 

“Nay, my lady,” Annatar said, and the half-truths dripped like quicksilver over his tongue. “Little news reaches us of the world without, I am saddened to say. With each passing moon the scouts return wounded, raving of demons upon the moors, or not at all, and any messenger birds that dare the skies are sorely punished for their bravery. Marooned upon an isle and cast adrift by the murky tide we sit, blind and starving. Tell me then, why do your brethren march so heavily armed? Surely in so great a number, no harm would yet befall them upon the road?” 

“Evil tidings, Annatar,” Aldvís replied sadly; and desperately Annatar fought to keep the dawning smirk from his face as the dwarrowdam continued. “Fell things they come out of the East now. There is no light upon the horizon. Shadows only, and fear. The tower is risen, they say, messengers they come frightened before my lord and our court. A tower, a black tower in the shadowed lands, wicked and strong. Fire burns in the mountain behind, the earth rumbles and quakes. These are grave tidings, Annatar. The darkness is come again to these lands.” 

Such victory seized him then, it scorched through his veins, such crowing pride elated him until it the shimmering aura about him seemed redoubled in its viscosity. A malicious smile clove across his face, and to Celebrimbor seated in his high chair then Annatar whipped about, and how his eyes gleamed with menace. 

For weeks now his ravens had cawed it: fire and smoke in the shadowed lands, and the tower beyond the dark mountains, yet tenuous was his belief in what truths even their sharp minds could convey. Yet here such rumours were confirmed, and oh how they _delighted_ him.

“Indeed,” he snarled, he cared not to disguise the thrill in his voice as success blazed in his heart, as plans so long set into motion began to truly coalesce, and from him Aldvís suddenly recoiled. But he cared not for her plight, such malevolent glee burned in his heart and it thrust all other emotions from him; it filled the void of his spirit and set it aflame. His shadows would roll across the lands; they would fester, smother, _devour_.

The darkness come again, Aldvís had said, and circumstantial friend though she was oh how her naivety was pitiful. The darkness snuck back to these lands like a thief, like a squeaking little ghost of his master’s terror? 

Nay, his darkness was not merely come again, Annatar thought, and his smile was unearthly as that thought bubbled within him.

His darkness was _ascendant_.

 

* * *

 

_Thanks so much to everyone who's been so patient in waiting for this update, and to everyone who's left comments and encouragements so far, and I hope this chapter was worth it! More to come as fast as humanly possible (so knowing me, wait for the next ice age to pass!) Until then, adieu! theeventualwinner xx_

 


	7. Ira

Fire glowed in Annatar’s hands. Snowflakes drifted mournfully down from the skies, they clustered like frigid little stars upon the balcony railing before him, and out into the shadowed gardens of Celebrimbor’s house he looked. Countless paper lanterns glowed like gledes of mellow light in the hands of the courtiers dotted through the garden’s terraces; one burned alike in his palm, and with the rustle of paper and the hiss of a flare beside him, Celebrimbor returned to his side and set a lit lantern in kind upon the balustrade.

The elf lord’s eyes glittered as he stared into the flame, snowflakes frosted the dark braids of his hair, and borne upon the winter breeze the scent of dampened soil caught upon his tongue. Earthy it was, but where once it was fresh, where once it delighted him, now it brought only the sickly tang of decay. Its sweetness clung to the back of his throat, saccharine and nauseating, as sweet almost as Annatar’s smile as the Maia leaned a little further over the balcony, Celebrimbor’s fur-trimmed cloak clasped about his shoulders and a candle in his hand.

With the wearing of the months, the blight in the soil had seemed only to grow more voracious. An assembly of thaumaturges potent in spells of earth and leaf Celebrimbor had called from all the reaches of Eregion, yet their combined efforts had been fruitless. Their incantations and weed-lore yielded nothing but the sorrows of the earth; the dying gasps of worms and beetles, the paralysis of roots and the withering of leaves, there was nothing but sickness and death left in the lands, but from what foul source the illness took root none could divine. 

Celebrimbor’s unions were failing. With the Edain lords scattered beyond the Hithaeglir there was little contact, as messengers sent galloping never returned, save in a smear of blood upon the scum of some ailing stream in the haunted gullies of Dunland. Promises and allegiances grew strained; the Hadhodrim of Moria sent what supplies they could lend, but they too were stretched thin in resources. Armed guards escorted barges of fleshy mushrooms and cured meats down the Sirannon, but it was said that Tor Broadbeam wept openly when his prized boars were put to the knife at the command of King Durin, and he cursed the Elves their greed that had sent his beasts to the slaughterhouse, and he would treat with them no more.

Rumours flew throughout the lands, to Gil-galad in his cowering city amid the fens, to Halador in Lond Daer and Alcarin in Fornost, to Oropher in the Greenwood and Galadriel in Lothlórien; monstrous beasts stalked the mountains, black wings hovered upon the horizon, and strange fires danced in the eastern skies with the coming of night.

From Angmar there was silence; a fell reek blew often from the North and Carn Dûm it was said conjured it, a fog that rolled over Rhudaur and the Ettenmoors, and beneath that ghastly blanket walked things that shunned the light of the sun. The ravens grew thick upon the roofs of Ost-in-Edhil, fat and glutted upon the carcasses of men and beasts they cawed upon the spires of Celebrimbor’s house, and their patrol of the skies was ceaseless. Messenger hawks were torn from the winds; the ravens plucked from Ost-in-Edhil its eyes and left them to stumble on blind in the midst of an oncoming cataclysm. _Ghâsh_ , _ghâsh_ , they cawed to Annatar by the veiled light of the moon, _fire_ ; rumbles in the earth, in the East, blood and bone; and to them Annatar hearkened. 

His enchantments grew strong, his cunning yet blacker; he set his pestilence into the hallowed soils of Celebrimbor’s garden and he revelled in their withering. The evergreen pines sickened, and the city despaired as they shed their dying needles in great shivers, leaving their branches scraped bare like ghastly bones stripped of flesh.

Amid the naked pines now Celebrimbor’s courtiers stood, and as their lanterns grew hot they tugged against the ribbons that bound them fast to their bearers. _Niquilissëa,_ the month of snow, was come, and as the heavens were marred with gloomy, ice-laden clouds, so the people of Ost-in-Edhil had taken to the streets with paper lanterns in hand, to place the stars back into the sky and to send prayers and supplications of goodwill to Elentári and Súlimo upon their white thrones in the West.  

Upon the balustrade Celebrimbor’s lantern strained at its tethers, and Annatar’s too, and patiently the Maia awaited Celebrimbor to ready himself. It was tradition, the elf had told him weeks before, to offer prayer written upon the lantern’s paper, and tersely Annatar had nodded. A quaint gesture, he judged it, impotent; there was only one being in Ëa’s bounds whom he should ever seek to deify, and he was no merciful kindler of the stars. Yet a prayer still Annatar had written, childish as it had seemed, in scratched glyphs almost as _tengwar_ made corrupt they curled about his lantern’s surface, and as Celebrimbor’s gaze wandered over them now he found that he could not read them, and a discomforting shiver flickered up his spine.

But quickly that shiver was banished as Annatar looked to him, it was replaced with a thrill of a far more visceral nature. For so lovely and golden Annatar stood, a mellifluous smile upon his lips and Celebrimbor’s own cloak framed so handsomely across his shoulders that it near stole the breath from the elf’s lungs. The fall of Annatar’s golden hair across its cobalt blue quilt was so exquisite, he thought, yet better it should be curled into his fist, it should be twined through his fingers as Annatar kissed him, it should be spilled across his thighs as Annatar’s lips closed about his aching, yearning length –

“You are quite readied, my lord?”    

Abruptly Celebrimbor was jerked from such pleasurable thoughts, and at the mischievous glimmer in Annatar’s eyes he cleared his throat hurriedly. “I am, thank you.”

Gathering himself to his full height then he raised a hand to his assembled courtiers for silence, and in a loud, clear voice said: “In these uncertain times, my friends, let us give prayer to the Lady Elentári, and to the Lord Súlimo atop Oiolossë in the West. May they keep watch over us as the shadows grow long, and the cold nights of _Niquilissëa_ draw in.”

With that he unclasped his lantern from its tethers, gently he pushed it skywards, and Annatar did also, and the courtiers, and the city beyond the high walls of his garden, until upon a sudden it seemed as if he and Annatar were caught adrift upon a bobbing, swirling sea of light, and how his heart ached to see it. For so beautiful Annatar was illumined in their radiance, resplendent in their glow and so ardently Celebrimbor wished to just reach forward and hold him, to kiss him, to blur away his troubles into Annatar’s golden aura and to simply fall apart in him. But swiftly he severed such temptations: the dark ripples of his past improprieties sounded still in his mind, and ever they tormented him. Annatar’s flirtations were as claws dragged through a glistening wound, and with the turn of the weeks and the fraying of other tempers it was so hard to keep himself from coming unravelled.

A heartsick sigh he breathed into the night, upon his elbows he leant forward upon the balcony, and he let the chilled stone help to cool the unwise hotness in his blood. At the lanterns he gazed; they blurred and flickered and smudged like fiery little stars across the clouded skies, and though his own was long since lost in the aerial mêlée, Annatar’s he tracked through the swirl.

It burned a little brighter than all the rest, a little more greedily: stronger, and redder.

At last Celebrimbor’s gaze slipped away, his mind turned to darker things, yet his cheeks slowly began to colour as he felt Annatar’s auric gaze turn to rest upon him. Coyly the Maia regarded him, almost softly, and in a rare act of intimacy he slunk a little closer to Celebrimbor’s side. Slowly, teasingly, he danced his fingers across the frosty balustrade upon which they leaned; he drew a spider-like waltz across the back of Celebrimbor’s hand, and so deliciously the elf lord flinched as Annatar’s fingers first grazed over his knuckles.

“You are troubled, my lord?” Thick and honeyed the words poured forth, and Celebrimbor near whimpered with sudden desire as he felt Annatar’s warm fingers tease his fist open, as they wove between his own chilled ones and playfully squeezed.

“These nights, they… they grow dark in my eyes, Annatar,” he murmured; the soft, insistent stroke of Annatar’s thumb up the side of his palm was so maddeningly exquisite, and unbidden he felt the first true flush of arousal tremble through his innards.

“There is light still, my lord,” the Maia purred, his handsome chin tilted and the distant glow of the lanterns shone like pinpricks of effervescent fire against his irises. “In the vaults of Vaiya and the skeins of Ilmen, there is light, and there is power. Beyond them still, in Avakúma; there are those who sung themselves not into the tapestry of Arda in the Beginning, and there are those unjustly stricken from it…”

Annatar’s voice was mesmerising, his words hardly seemed to matter save for the wonder of his tone. A lazy strand of hair wafted across his throat with the breeze, it lay so tantalisingly against a glimpse of bare skin there, and in that moment something cramped in Celebrimbor’s stomach; repressed desires and simmering lusts tipped over only into impulsion. His hand slipped from Annatar’s grasp, he turned and reached forwards, upwards, he cared no longer for consequence as he pushed back that errant strand of hair. Along Annatar’s jaw his fingers traced; a quirk of some indeterminate emotion played upon the Maia’s lips but to him it was haunting only in its beauty.

“Will you come to bed with me, Annatar?”

Duskily the words flowed from him; lust weaved its violent way through them, and heedless of the reply he pressed himself forward, he held Annatar to him and planted a deep, hot kiss upon his neck.

“Please, Annatar,” he breathed, almost reverent in his sacrilege as he trailed a constellation of kisses up the Maia’s throat, over the side of his jaw. “Please…" 

Something about Annatar seemed to sharpen then, the Maia made to feint away but desperately Celebrimbor held him, clasped to him, and thoughts of lust curdled within his blood. For all too swiftly it seemed yet another refusal, another cruel spurn in the litany of hurt which Annatar inflicted upon him. All that he had done, he thought bitterly, all that he had ever done was for him, to please him, to make him laugh, to make him smile, and all he was ever left with was the sour taste of ingratitude upon his tongue. It was unjust, he thought; anger moiled in his stomach and his grip tightened upon Annatar’s neck, his left hand crept to the Maia’s waist and held him fast. It was _unfair_ ; he was Annatar’s lord, he wanted him, he _deserved_ him, and - 

The quick, darting kiss that Annatar pressed to his lips sent the air whistling from his lungs.

“Let us go, my lord,” the Maia whispered, his voice smooth as thickest cream, and all the more treacherous for it. Avarice burned in his eyes, tender and sly, and how that greed set Celebrimbor aflame to see it. Lust kindled from the dying embers of hurt and suffused him with its potency, victory sang through his veins as their lips met once more in a deep, longing kiss, as he took Annatar by the hand and near wrenched him through the doors of his house.

How pitifully the elf panted for him, Annatar sneered, as with the utmost of self-control he allowed himself to be pulled through the noble house. How base, how carnal his desires he thought kept repressed, and how painfully easy they were to manipulate. The leisure in it was almost unsporting, Annatar mused; a tilt of his hips, a flirtatious little grin and the elf would be on his knees simply begging for his touch. Still, he pondered, a scowl of displeasure flitted over his face as Celebrimbor yanked him around a corner; he was never much a partaker in sporting chance.

Far better to have his enemies eviscerated, and leave them drooling their entrails across the floor.

The slamming of the bedchamber door behind him interrupted such bracing thoughts, and Celebrimbor whirled to hold him once more, to place a deep kiss upon his lips. The elf’s hands fumbled with the clasps of his cloak, with the buttons of his doublet, careless in his eagerness, and how Annatar grudged him his pleasure. A swell of puissance he sent crackling through the room, the elf moaned as it gripped him; Annatar’s tongue swirled against his own and it tasted like metal, corrupt and rusted and _sublime_.

So tempting were Annatar’s hands upon him, so teasing were the fingers that slid beneath his shirt, that toyed with the lacings upon his breeches as he ground his hips forward, and with each pass of Annatar’s hands upon him Celebrimbor’s breath came more heavily. A gasp of pleasure he punched down the Maia’s throat as finally Annatar’s grip slid lower, as he palmed him through the soft leather of his breeches, and a lewd grin spread over his face as he felt his stiffened length so wondrously stroked. 

“ _Strip for me, my lord_ ,” Annatar murmured, a swell of puissance he threw behind his words and blindly, urgently, Celebrimbor scrambled to comply. Stately robes were shrugged to the floor until naked and wanting he stood before the Maia; lust twisted in his stomach and he lunged forward to press a savage kiss upon Annatar’s lips. Viciously he groped over the Maia’s waist, over his arse, but with a seething pulse of power he was rebuffed; Annatar’s eyes narrowed vindictively as the elf was forced back a pace, and then another. 

An awful sneer curled over the Maia’s lips as he flipped Celebrimbor about, as one hard push sent the elf lord toppling face-first upon the bedcovers, and before Celebrimbor had even the slightest chance to recover himself his hands were snatched out from beneath him. A sharp breath of surprise ripped out of his throat as Annatar bound his hands together at the small of his back with a short length of the lantern’s ribbon, but only as the bonds cut tightly, _too tightly_ , into his wrists did he begin to writhe. 

“ _Such a naughty little lordling,”_ Annatar crooned, his voice severed Celebrimbor’s mounting protest as a flash of puissance stung its pleasurable, painful way over the elf’s skin. Desperately Celebrimbor writhed, but a sharp slap to the back of his thigh brought him up short, it sent a squeal of pain into the bedclothes and miserably he stilled as the Maia’s voice thickened. “ _Such boldness... You grasp for rewards that you do not deserve.”_  

“No,” Celebrimbor whimpered; he flinched and moaned as Annatar raked his nails over his arse, as pink abrasions blossomed over the sensitive skin of his thighs. “No, no, I didn’t… _I didn’t mean it_ …” 

“Hush now,” the Maia cooed, he scratched three white furrows over the rising welt upon Celebrimbor’s thigh and he thrilled in the elf’s bleats of discomfort. “Hush, my lord, lest you spoil my indulgence. For you have been such a good little lord of late, have you not? So brave in the face of adversity, so loyal in your friendships when they would only see you betrayed… How cruel of me to deny you what so ardently you crave.” 

A gasp shook over the elf’s lips as Annatar pinched him; shameful, delicious heat flushed through his stomach as he felt his arse redden under Annatar’s capricious fingers. 

“Please, _please,_ Annatar, I – “

Fingers knotted suddenly through Celebrimbor’s hair, positioned fully upon the bed now Annatar hauled the elf up, and joy blazed in his heart as the elf’s knees scrabbled for balance as he held him close. Celebrimbor’s hands flexed helplessly within their bonds, the ribbon dug reddened grooves into his wrists as he sank back into Annatar’s chest. He blushed as he felt his arse tighten, as Annatar’s thigh pushed against the sore flesh there, as the Maia forced his legs to open so crudely and left him kneeling there so deliciously splayed.

Scarcely did he dare to look as Annatar’s attention wandered for an instant, he caught only a glimpse of spiralling ribbon before it was drawn tightly across his eyes, and his sight was taken from him. He moaned as Annatar tightened the knots, he tugged fruitlessly against his bonds, but how pleasurably he shivered as the Maia’s breath flushed over his neck.

“ _Much better, my lord_ ,” Annatar crooned. “ _On your knees, where you belong_.”

The beginnings of a protest welled up in his throat, but they melted away into a mewl of pleasure as Annatar’s hand ghosted over his ribs, as cunning fingers brushed agonisingly over his nipples, and a hollow keen echoed out of his chest as such tender flesh was slowly coaxed to engorgement. With such predatory purpose Annatar toyed with him, the Maia turned upon the bed to kneel directly before him, and a half-swallowed cry of ecstasy shuddered through him as Annatar’s tongue flicked over his left nipple. The Maia rolled it between his teeth, a livid blush mottled up Celebrimbor’s neck as he moaned, as heat prickled over his skin, and desperately he arched his hips forward, he pressed his aching length towards any form of contact he could grasp. 

Annatar’s thigh pressed between his legs and wantonly he spread them, finally Annatar’s hand slipped to his groin and with an unflattering groan of relief Celebrimbor thrust his drooling length into his palm, he slicked Annatar’s fingers in pre-come as flagrantly, urgently he rolled his hips forward. 

Humiliation blistered through him at the Maia’s soft, disdainful laugh, but he simply moaned out his arousal as Annatar’s fingers closed about his length, as they began to coax him harder. 

“Oh… Annatar, oh… _ohhh_ …” 

“Shh, my lord,” the Maia crooned, he trailed his words through a series of hot, lapping kisses across Celebrimbor’s clavicle. “It’s all right, it’s all right now…” 

“P-please,” the elf gasped, he rutted himself into Annatar’s teasing fingers and in that debasement he found only delight. “Oh, oh _fuck_ …”

“Shh, Tyelpë, shh. That’s it. That’s it, sweetling…”

A strangled cry Celebrimbor keened into Annatar’s shoulder, his wrists strained within their bonds as every muscle in him clenched in pleasure.

“ _Am I not so generous to you, my lord_?” The words came sweet and delicate over Annatar’s lips, and caught so precariously upon the treacherous shores of lust Celebrimbor was helpless in his reply. “ _Am I not so kind_?”

“Y-yes, Annatar, oh, oh fuck, _f-fuck_ …”

“I should sew up your lips, sweetling, to stop such filth from slipping over them. But how then would you beg, I wonder?”

A grunt of delight punched up to the ceiling as Annatar’s grip tightened by a fraction; Celebrimbor’s back arched, and a grimace of such excruciating pleasure contorted his features as Annatar stroked him, coaxed him. 

“Yet never would I abuse what is so precious to me. For I am so tender with you, am I not, my lord?” 

“Yes…” Celebrimbor gasped, he slammed his length into Annatar’s waiting fingers and in the throes of lust he was torn apart. “Yes, Annatar, oh, f- “

“ _I am so gentle…”_

A wordless keen of affirmation tore out of the elf’s throat, thin and desperate.

_“For you love me, do you not, my lord?”_

“ _Yes_ ,” Celebrimbor croaked; passion tumbled the words from his lips and how slickly, how _victoriously_ Annatar smiled. “Y-yes…” 

“ _Then come for me, my lord_.” 

A groan erupted from Celebrimbor’s throat as Annatar’s fingers flexed, as a burst of puissance crackled over him and ripped from him his delight. Every muscle in him clenched as ecstasy slammed through him, shook him, drowned him, he spurted his seed into Annatar’s fingers and he mewled with the sheer bliss of it. Because all through his climax Annatar was there, close and golden and wonderful he was holding him, helping him, coaxing from him the last ounce of burning pleasure until at last such vicious ardours slipped from him. 

Low upon his knees Celebrimbor slumped, his thighs trembled as the last rills of climax fluttered through him, panting and blind he knelt as he sensed Annatar shift before him. For how Annatar grinned, though the elf’s filth coated his fingers how swiftly that might be remedied, and capriciously he raised his seed-slickened fingers to Celebrimbor’s lips. 

The elf balked as he felt his cream daubed across his mouth, he clamped his jaw shut and shook his head in refusal, but with quick pinch of his nipple such feeble protests came undone. A cry of pain sprang from him, it melded into a whimper of degradation as once more Annatar raised his fingers, as he painted them over Celebrimbor’s mouth, and though he shuddered with the humiliation of it, at last Celebrimbor parted his lips in earnest. Shame twisted in his innards as he licked his seed from Annatar’s fingers like some well-trained little dog, as the Maia savoured every wince and quiver of humiliation in it; it was vile, Celebrimbor thought, it was _debased_ , and he gagged as he tasted himself upon his tongue. 

Quickly though it was over, Annatar wiped a disdainful hand down across his chest and began to move away when clarity finally began to pierce through the hazy muddle of his thoughts. As if he could dislodge the ribbon that blinded him he shook his head, his shoulders wriggled as he fought against the bonds that held his wrists, and with a demanding edge crept back into his voice he bleated, “Annatar… Annatar, my hands…” 

“Quiet now, my lord,” came the soft reply, and the first tremor of worry shivered through Celebrimbor’s heart. 

“But -” 

He flinched as the Maia’s hands caressed him, as gently Annatar turned him and forced him to lie down upon his side, and snugly Annatar pressed to him. His back and bound arms crushed uncomfortably into the Maia’s chest, his fingers twitched weakly against Annatar’s stomach as with such false tenderness the Maia cradled him. 

“Annatar, wait – “

He yelped as Annatar pinched his nipple, hard; as best as he could he wriggled as he felt the Maia arise and lean over him.

“You do so struggle with the concept of obedience, don’t you, Tyelpë?” 

“No…” 

An exasperated sigh was breathed above him, something trailed up over his naked body, ticklish in its lightness, and Celebrimbor shivered as it wandered over his skin.

“Perhaps a little reinforcement, then,” the Maia crooned. “For disobedient little lords must learn their place.”

More purposefully now Celebrimbor felt that thing slip over his chin, he felt Annatar grip it in earnest, and desperately he squirmed away from that increase in pressure.

“Wait! Wait, I didn’t… I… _I don’t want this_ …”

The Maia’s tone was airy, but all the more cutting in his response. “Have you ever considered, Tyelpë, that life is not always about what _you_ want?” 

Tightly that thing, the _ribbon_ Celebrimbor realised to his dismay, was pulled against his lips, painfully tight, and though he grunted and twisted against it, his lips began to whiten with the force Annatar was exerting at last he opened his mouth to accept it. 

“Very good, my lord,” Annatar purred; Celebrimbor’s protest was muted to a mortifying simper that sounded almost _grateful_ as the gag was pulled cruelly tight against the corners of his mouth, and Annatar fastened the knot securely at the back of his head.

“You see,” he whispered; scorn dripped from his teeth as lightly, possessively he kissed Celebrimbor upon the cheek. “Obedience is not so hard, in the end. It is not so terrible...”

A flash of power extinguished the candles that dotted about the bedchamber, and swathed in darkness they lay together. Annatar clasped the bound elf lord to him, and such black, gluttonous merriment thrummed through his heart as he felt Celebrimbor shiver and squirm through all the long hours of the night. 

 

* * *

 

Three days later Annatar announced his intent to leave Ost-in-Edhil, and oh how the elf lord whinged about it. It was prudent, Annatar explained, with every ounce of his thinning patience reined tightly in check he expounded upon the fictitious reasons for his departure. He would be better able to assess the cause of this blight from outside of the city’s walls, he said soothingly, better he would be able to apply his earth-lore to the sickening lands, in urgency redoubled than any industrial works that he had a part in. He could make safe the haunted passes of Hollin, he could scourge from them this unseen evil, for revealed in his power who in these lands had the power to stand against him, a Maia of Aulë’s halls come in the youth of his might. 

Stoically Corannon supported his claims, and Iskandar and Gilthariel also, though if any spoke with more oblique motives for his departure then they kept such yearnings private. Yet for the sense in his words and the pressings of his council Celebrimbor stalled, he protested, he whined; Annatar was needed _here_ , he argued, at the council table, at his forge as loremaster in the Gwaith-i-Mírdain’s halls, but as he was met with his council’s increasingly disparaging glances, and Annatar’s firm will to depart, the first coals of bitterness kindled in his heart.

Annatar was _his_ , he thought acridly, the Maia’s place was at his side, in his bed, on his knees with his pretty lips wrapped around his cock and adoration shining in his eyes, and jealousy gnawed at his heart when it was suggested otherwise. It was yet another failing, yet another spurn, and it twisted his thoughts where reason should have led. For even as his council muttered their assent to Annatar’s wish, gently Corannon had drawn him aside, and in an alcove of the council chambers had spoken the warning of his heart. 

“He is not good for you, Tyelpë,” Corannon had murmured with nothing but sincerity in his dark eyes. “And you are not good for him. You should let him go, for a time.”

“What business is it of yours?” Celebrimbor snapped, perhaps more venomously than he intended to, and guilt washed through him as Corannon recoiled slightly.

“You are my sovereign, my lord,” Corannon implored, “and ere this age had begun you have been counted among my dearest of friends. Annatar also has grown fond to me, for many has been the time where we have spoken in friendship amongst the forges, and many a time he has aided me where I have faltered. I speak then for the benefit of you both, and for the benefit of this realm also. Forgo your claim upon him, Tyelpë, for in it there is poison. Something festers there, in him or in you I know not, but it is there, and even if you cannot or will not see it, do not think me blind. Let him go, let him aid you in dissuading this blight as he is confident that he can, and upon his return we shall see what might come to pass.” 

An ugly grimace contorted Celebrimbor’s face; though Corannon’s words were spoken gently he sensed nothing but injury in them. 

“He is needed _here_ ,” the lord said forcefully, “not abandoned to the wilds of Eregion. There are works scarce begun that he must aid in: the Three I have but conceived of and their intendeds grow wanting. I would not so frivolously cast him aside upon a wild claim of healing this blight. I would not see him departed from this city, not now, not _ever_ …” 

“Then you would bind him here?” Corannon’s voice grew sharp in turn; repugnance blossomed in his heart as he glimpsed the clamouring light behind Celebrimbor’s eyes. “His intentions to leave seem adamant, and you would deny him this? I took you not for a slaver, my lord, though I should not envy your attempt to fetter him.”

“Your envies are needless!” Celebrimbor snarled. “Annatar is mine to command as I see fit, as are you, Corannon. Remember that, lest your tongue run too hotly!”

A haughty smirk caught over Celebrimbor’s lips, he made to leave, but in that moment frustration blazed brighter in Corannon’s heart than deference, and as his lord turned to depart he seized him by the arm. He yanked Celebrimbor’s sleeve upwards, he exposed to the grim light of day the circlet of purpled bruises that ringed Celebrimbor’s wrist like a shackle, those bloodied marks like stains of sin pressed into his skin.

A cry of indignation forced itself from Celebrimbor’s lips, he tried to wrench himself free of Corannon’s impudent grip but the smith was resolute, and at last Celebrimbor’s gaze was forced to the injuries that Annatar had left upon him.

“It is my duty,” Corannon began sorrowfully, “to protect you from harm, my lord. This is what my loyalty means, both as your bondsman and as your friend. And my ambivalence in this matter has reached its end. I will not stand passively by as you are abused, nor as you abuse him. I will not turn my face from this as the others do, no longer, and you may not command it of me.”

Fury danced in Celebrimbor’s eyes, he snatched his arm back and with a despairing sigh Corannon released him. Wreathed in brittle silence then they stood, Celebrimbor yanked his sleeve back down, but no longer would he look Corannon in the eye.

A curl of some black emotion played over his lips, but even as the silence began to sicken, ruefully Corannon said, “You should let him go, my lord. You should let him go, for I say that the evils of his passing will be lesser than those of his staying.” 

 

* * *

 

At dawn, Annatar rode. Upon a fiery bay stallion he was mounted, his bow slung across his back and a quiver of arrows at his knee, and a skinning knife hung from the belt buckled over his leather armour. Curtly Celebrimbor had dismissed him, had bidden him return swiftly when his task was done, and his hurt was plain as a razor slashed through his skin. Graciously though Annatar had smiled, he had bowed his head respectfully, and with every ounce of his willpower he stamped down the glee that bubbled in his heart as he turned his back upon the elf lord in his high chair, as he ripped free the veiled pretences of friendship and set swift spurs to his horse.

Down the cobbled road before Ost-in-Edhil’s white walls it surged, and how Annatar laughed as its thundering hooves bore him away from the city; away from its claustrophobic halls and sycophantic niceties, away from those who would seek only to possess him, to use him, to tear him apart and string him through their vain ambitions. With every stride away from that accursed place his mood lightened, he gave the horse its head and bade it fly, and as he was enveloped into the gullies and crags of the hills his mood grew changed, lighter and yet fey.

Due south through Dunland he rode, he trusted to the surefootedness of his mount as they wound through the narrow vales of that land, and the horse served him well. By night he sheltered in what caves he could espy amid the rugged terrain, and his horse whickered and snorted fearfully at the howls that tore through the darkness with the rising of the moon. Joyously he listened to his creatures baying out their hatred, and about his campfires made luxurious use of the Elven provisions with which he was outfitted, and he slept to the lull of that macabre chorus. Upon the fifth day he joined the North-South Road, and along its track made good pace southwards, though none he encountered in all those long miles save for slain oxen and ruined carts left to spoil in ditches by the wayside. At the Fords of Isen he tarried a day; he replenished his dwindling supplies from the herds of fallow deer that roamed the marshes, and with filled waterskins and a rested horse then he turned east, and ventured across the trackless plains of Rohan. 

The Ondló he forded only by the steel of his will; his horse shied at the rushing waters of the river that climbed near to its withers, and long he laboured to persuade it to dare the current. North then drew his path, in a wide semi-circle to skirt the morass of rock and forest that heralded the Anduin’s eastern banks, for he would make that crossing over the sluggish meanders that lay leagues to the north of the Falls of Rauros. Southeast then he turned, across the desolate plains of those nameless lands until with the barren outcrops of the Emyn Muil upon his right he finally spied the bulk of the Ered Lithui, and how their black spires delighted him. 

Across the lifeless, acrid lands that swept before Udûn’s maw he spurred his weary horse, and as the shadows of the Ash Mountains to the east and the Ephel Duath in the south darkened the soil beneath his mount’s hooves, gladly he looked upwards, and he bade it give what of its last strength it could. Its efforts rewarded him well, for across the narrow cleft of the two mountain ranges spanned his gate of burnished steel and riven iron; the Black Gate, the Morannon that bridged the gaping maw of his lands and barred them from idle entry. Slabs of metal jutted like grotesque teeth from its parapet some sixty feet high, flares burned beyond them and ballistae were winched taut in their hollows, and as he drew near a throaty trumpet blared its challenge.

His horse reared and shied at the tumult, but with a soothing hand upon its neck he calmed it, he bade it walk forward though with every step it quailed and threatened to bolt from beneath him. Finally its bold nerve failed, it squealed and sweated grievously before those terrible gates and would go no further, and though it fretted beneath him Annatar arose in his stirrups, and in a loud, clear voice he cried, “The lord of these lands is returned to you, servants mine! Throw open these gates and be merry! _Burzum durbat, agh dûm skát.”_

Darkness rules, and doom has come, he called, for those were the watchwords laid down upon his departure, the words strained for by every hoary ear that guarded the borders of his realm. A moment’s silence passed, but then a great ululation arose from the parapet, and from beyond Annatar heard the roar of trolls goaded into motion, and the turning of colossal cranks, and as torches and flares burst into new light behind metal guards, the gates were wrenched open before him.

Upon the straight, dusty road through the plain of Udûn he forced his horse to march, and though it shied and pranced at every fall of rock or trumpet call that blared behind him, without incident he reached the fortress at the Isenmouthe some hours later. A flock of squalling _crebain_ swooped low overhead as he approached its ramparts, they whirled and splintered under the gloomy skies, bearing the joyous tidings of their lord’s return from the Gate to all the shadowed realms of Mordor, and all rejoiced at the news as it reached them.

The fires of Orodruin grew turbulent and impatient as he switched horses at the Isenmouthe, as gladly he was feasted and outfitted by the uruk captains stationed there. Yet within the day he pressed onwards, and as a brooding night fell in Mordor he galloped down the smooth orc-road to his tower, the Dark Tower, Barad-dûr resplendent in its dark majesty, and his eyes lit up with wonder as it reared up from the low plains of Gorgoroth. As a mighty pillar of malice it stood, black and impenetrable upon a jagged prominence of rock, unparalleled in terror and fierce in its malevolence, and as he crossed the great bridge before its main gates a banner was unfurled in triumph from a high window, a cloth bearing his red eye upon a sable field, the Eye of Sauron come again to rule these ashen lands. A great cry took up as he cantered into the entrance hall, drums pounded and all bowed low to their lord, for hot and wicked was their joy as he was enveloped once more into their number, and raised above them all. 

All had gone smoothly in the years of his absence, he later learned, having explored his newly constructed chambers at the very pinnacle of the fortress and finding them more than satisfactory. Decadently they were outfitted, he thought, and fondly he appraised them as he languished within the sulphuric waters of a bath that some cowering tower-slave had drawn for him, and with no matter so pressing that it could not wait for the pallid morning, gratefully he retired to his bed. 

With the filth of the road washed away, and the breaking of a dust-smeared dawn beneath the broil of Orodruin’s fume, he called his ruling council to conclave. The coalition that he had left in command during his absence had performed their duties with efficiency beyond expectation, he was most pleased to learn, and under his appointed triumvirate Mordor had flourished.

Completion of Barad-dûr and many other minor fortifications across Mordor’s countless strongholds were completed months ahead of schedule, snarled Thargal, and his piggish eyes lit up with pride as Annatar praised him his efforts. Lame in one leg from an unwise skirmish, the orc would be naught but a burden upon the field of battle, but sharp was his mind, and ingenious his designs, and his skill among Udûn’s engineers had grown to eclipse all others, and it had spared him from the cull. The mines wormed into the Ephel Duath voraciously, he growled, the pendulous bird-bones that hung from his ears clacked and chattered with each twitch of his head; the lands were made rich in iron, copper, and coal. The watchtowers upon the Morgai were strengthened, and many more under construction, and the fortresses upon the Sea of Nurnen’s black sands were grown mighty indeed. 

Zîmir spoke next; an ashen-skinned Edain sold to Mordor by the Witchocracy of Khand in tribute, yet openly Zîmir had renounced his slavery, and pledged his true allegiance to the Black Lands long ago. In his soft, lecherous voice he told of black thaumaturgy that had forced Nurn’s fields of wheat, barley, and rice to opulent fruition, that the slaves hauled great nets of thrashing fish from the Sea’s deathly waves, and scrabbled in the dirt for the tuberous vegetables that were cultivated in those lands. Massive surplus their stores possessed in meats and grains, and along the Thorned Road that wound through secret tunnels in the far south of the Ephel Duath they were augmented moreover by trade with Khand and the warring tribes of Harad. Spices and mining craft were bandied along those shadowed passages, and emissaries had been sent forth even to Rhûn in the East bearing messages of goodwill, and gifts of artifices forged in the fires of Orodruin that were beyond count of coin. Favourably Annatar looked upon such endeavours, and he resolved to meet again with Zîmir and review the accounts in far more detail, when lastly he turned to Korakh. 

Grey hairs tufted from the elderly uruk’s head, who despite his age was more adept in military command than any upon Arda’s shores, and none now were more trusted and loved in Annatar’s regard. Centuries had turned since that ugly day when dragons roared and mountains toppled, when what was most precious to him was torn away, when Korakh had clamped his clawed hand about his wrist and dragged him from the ravening. None were more faithful in those uncertain years after, and with the struggling turn of the decades friendship had grown fast between them. The orcs were legion, Korakh reported; in the breeding grounds blistered into the slimy bellies of the mountains rank upon rank of uruk and orc were dug from their artificial chrysalides, in gouts of alchemical embryonic fluid they were birthed bellowing their bloodlust to the world. Trolls spawned in those caverns also, ranks of the Edain marched upwards from the South herding _mûmak_ and horned buffalo, and creatures yet fouler were bred and nursed with reeking meats in shadowed pits beneath the mountains. All were loyal to Mordor’s banner, all would follow the Red Eye and ceaseless was their lust for war, and mightily Annatar praised Korakh for his leadership in these matters.

To battle the conversation turned, and before the week was out the war-council was summoned, and Mordor’s dread captains were summoned to Barad-dûr. From the gates of the Morannon came Múgog Stenchbringer, Udûn’s champion, and met with the hulking orc was Lommur of the Knives, commander of the fortifications at the Isenmouthe. From the Morgai came Snagbur Sharathroq, who split the bones of his victims and supped from their skulls, and Ratask the Crafty, and from the furthest watchtowers of the East came Takra and Burzna, twinned blood-mages puissant in witchcraft and sorcery. From the lands of Nurn marched the Boneweaver with a gleaming ring upon his finger, and from the southern-most plains of that land came Tzaran Mûmak-shakh borne in a lavish palanquin atop one of his tusked beasts.

Together they sat in council, and with Annatar they planned their war. Troop mobility and siege capabilities were discussed and discarded, legions of men and uruks were set marching up the great orc roads to marshal upon the empty plateaus of Gorgoroth, and as the machinations of war turned to momentous progress, Annatar at last took leave from the councils.

His heart was set on a prize far greater.

With the turning of the month at last he came to his great foundries within the hidden chambers of Orodruin, and the mountain smoked and churned in gladness at his return. The crash of iron hammers and the sizzle of quenched metal rang in his ears; fell voices cried and stones were split asunder over dread artifices of engineering beyond the ken of mortal minds. Fondly he beheld their clamour, their passion and their fury as blades were smelted, and shields beaten, and engines fuelled; he looked upon the turgid flows of molten rock that writhed like tortured serpents through the veins of the earth and he felt the promise of their power elate him. The roar of the magma prickled in his blood, its incandescent glow bathed him in a ruddy light and he yearned for it, and it for him. For here in centuries past he had poured forth his power, he had bled the mingled potencies of his own spirit and of that far more fey into the bones of the earth, into the volcano’s molten heart, and the power that then he had wielded had scarred the stones in its wrath. Ash-blasted was his furnace carved out of living rock, scorched and pitted was his forge, and everywhere fragments of his puissance crawled, throbbed, _burned_ , and to himself now he drew back that power. 

Cinders flurried, naked magma seethed and bubbled, the shadows warped and blurred into mutant ghosts of pain and horror as he called forth the blackest essence of his spirit; from his body he drew it, from the heats of the lava he summoned it, from ash and stone and fire he ripped it and the earth groaned in its agony as it surged forth at his will. His cruelty he saw played before him, his malice, his power, everything that had ever bound him or bloodied him and everything that he hated; black words scorched over his tongue as he said them but still they poured; slaughters, revelries, crunching bones and the wet lave of tongues, every hurt, every fuck, every betrayal, every hot, hurting thrust of flesh into flesh he took and he crushed and he tore and he set alight in the oils of his treachery, and Orodruin vomited out its hatred as he stole its heats and with them he forged.

He dared a feat of smithcraft that would have Fëanáro himself drooling his envy into the blackest realms of the Void, and set the Valar trembling on their gilded thrones. A ring he forged, into a stock of purest gold he bound his black spell, he smelted them together in the livid magma that spat and broiled in its anger, magic and metal he sealed together until cherry red and smoking he pulled it from the volcano’s fires. Throbbing with energy he set it upon his anvil, a solid punch he placed atop the glowing stock and with a mighty spell clove it through the gold, he rived from the hissing metal a hollow band, and the rest he sheared away. Evil crawled across the walls of his forge as he rolled it, dissonant shreds of malevolence clamoured and clawed for the terror of the thing that he held within his palm, for the horror of the spell that poured still from his cracked, bleeding lips, yet still he spoke, and those stray malices were tethered screaming and squalling into that band of metal, until at last his spell was done.

Seamless and potent the burnished band of gold lay upon his palm, through red-rimmed eyes he beheld it, he watched as a fiery script blazed across its inner surface, and blood and charred flesh sloughed from his lips as he grinned. Aloft he held it, the Ring, _his_ Ring, the One Ring to rule them all, and as he placed it victorious upon his forefinger, the words clove through him.

_Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul,_

_Ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul._

The foundations of the mountains quailed; tremors shuddered through the earth as Orodruin heaved, as a gout of flame and rock and smoke spewed from its mouth, as it blasted its malevolence and its power into the fouled skies. And such power flowed through Annatar then; raw and burning his own spirit crashed back into him renewed, redoubled in its ferocity, its tenacity, yowling, hammering, devouring, it seemed to scourge through his veins, it gripped him and it rent him and it changed him, it cradled him within his own evil and it forged him anew. It stripped something away from him, and into that void it poured only flames, and hatred. 

For such was the glory and power of his spirit as he strode back through Barad-dûr’s gates that captains and thralls alike fell upon their faces before them, they grovelled and made their fawning obeisance until he bade them rise, and like marionettes jerked upon their strings they obeyed. Annatar was come among them once more in might renewed and unchallengeable, and yet they saw that he was changed. No longer was he proud Mairon of old in Arda’s youth, Gorthaur was burned away; Sauron now he was to them and so would ever be, Lord of the Dark Tower and Lord of the Ring, and so they proclaimed him, and the drums pounded to a terrible crescendo as once more he sat upon his dread throne and filled the lands with shadow. 

The thin veneer of Annatar still he clasped across himself, and he repaired what fraying edges of it were left reeling by his spellcraft. Gold and handsome still he seemed, fair as a dream of summer and fickle to match, pure save for the redness that now ringed his eyes, for the auric striae of his irises were looped by a writhing, burning band of crimson that no sorcery could fully erase. And let it be so, he decreed, for no longer would he bow, no longer need he assume the guise of some simpering Maia of Aulë’s host, never again would he veil himself in smiles and flatteries for the sport of some filthy elf lord, never again would he suffer such debasement, and to Celebrimbor now his mind at last turned.

He wondered if the lord had fretted for him, feared him lost in the vales of Hollin or met a grisly end in a gully of Dunland. Had he stood at his window and watched for him, pined for like some lovesick puppy, had he taken to his bed all cold and lonely and stroked himself in the darkness, and dreamed of soft hands upon him. Had he come to the thought of golden eyes and a traitor’s smile, Annatar wondered, and his heart thickened with glee at the sweet sting of his betrayal. Idly he pondered what had become of the Three, the Elven rings that Celebrimbor had devised, for with the Ruling Ring he could feel their presence from afar, though their locations were uncertain. No matter, he thought; such secrets would be revealed soon enough. 

Before his dark throne Grimmalk, master of Barad-dûr’s dungeons, hauled a shivering slave: an elf taken in battle long ago and broken so utterly in _fëa_ to servitude that he required fetters no longer. Yet still a thick collar adorned the slave’s neck, his leash was clutched in Grimmalk’s meaty fist, and on bony knees before the throne the slave dared not raise his eyes until a sharp tug upon his collar forced his chin upwards. Passively the slave knelt as Annatar appraised him, through a fringe of messily cropped hair he stared dully at the throne, and he did not so much as twitch as fresh blood drooled down his cheek. For in a wide oval encircling his left eye an ugly emblem had been carved into his skin, the Red Eye was etched in sore, weeping flesh over his forehead and cheek, and though it sluiced blood anew with every miniscule movement, the slave bore his new markings without complaint. 

“Do you know the way to Ost-in-Edhil, slave?” Annatar’s voice was absolute, imperious and terrible; the force of it was as a tangible pressure through the static air of the throne room. 

“Yes, my lord,” the elf replied tonelessly, and though blood dripped over his lip he made no motion to wipe it away. 

“Very good,” Annatar said, and a swell of compulsion played behind his commands as he gave them. “You will go to Ost-in-Edhil, slave, and you will bear for me a message. You will be given a horse, and you will ride to that city, and when your horse fails you then you will walk, and when your feet are ripped to shreds amongst the stones then you will crawl. You will crawl to Celebrimbor’s gates and you will show him my brand upon your face, and you will tell him that a new power is arisen in these lands, one far mightier than his own. You will tell him that he is betrayed.” A decadent tone curled in Annatar’s voice, and with an awful leer he continued, “You will tell him to open his legs, and to fuck himself bloody upon the war that I will bring him.”

At the vehemence in Annatar’s tone the slave’s cheeks blanched, but obediently, fervently, he nodded as Annatar stood from his throne. Grimmalk stepped aside as his lord sauntered forwards, as Annatar pressed his thumb into the raw wound across the slave’s face, and he smiled as the elf jerked in pain beneath him. 

“No creature of mine will harm you with that pretty mark upon you,” Annatar said softly, “and neither shall you allow any folk or beast to hinder you. Do this deed for me, slave, and slink back to your masters if you are allowed to, for well I should see you rewarded if you serve me truly.”

A gasp of adoration caught in the slave’s throat, though blood smeared over his cheek as Annatar unhanded him, a new light shone in the slave’s eyes as he looked upon his kindly master. “Yes, my lord,” he said reverently. “As you command, my lord.” 

With a flick of his fingers Annatar bade the slave rise, and demurely the elf clambered to his feet as Annatar looked upon him. “Ride swiftly,” he bade. “Go now with your master; Grimmalk will see you outfitted and horsed, and set upon the road.”

 

* * *

 

Three months later, black banners unfurled before the gleaming walls of Ost-in-Edhil, and the Red Eye glared from them over the beleaguered city. Battalions of orcs swarmed like nightmarish clusters of beetles upon the gently sloping grounds that bordered the city; chitinous and clanking in their motley array of chainmail and leathers they had marched up from the south in numbers unseen in millennia, and they bristled now before Ost-in-Edhil’s walls. Trolls grunted as they hauled great stores of arms and light ballistae to their stations and war-tents, wolves and bears and monsters stirred from the haunted hills stalked the army’s fringes, and as his battalions fanned out in preparation for the initial assault, coldly Annatar surveyed the city.

Upon a high spar of rock to Ost-in-Edhil’s south his hair poured like honey over studded pauldrons of darkened plate steel, black mail glimmered beneath it, and its tinkle was eerily cheerful as his horse shifted and champed beneath him. An oiled hunting bow he wore strung and strapped over a great quiver of crow-fletched arrows at his back, twinned knives were sheathed at his belt, and eagerly he toyed with the bone-hilt of the left as he squinted into the breeze, and spied the frantic whorls of motion atop the city’s distant parapets.   

A gust of bitter wind howled over the city and its plains, Annatar’s uruk guard hunkered behind their shields, but with it the Maia looked to the turbulent skies above. For beneath the roiling clouds a black pestilence seemed to hover above Ost-in-Edhil’s grim spires, ravens and crows and countless birds of carrion croaked above the city upon sable wings, and despite the chill of inactivity, their presence warmed Annatar’s heart. Faithful they had been since the beginning; stalwart messengers of his cause, and well their faith had been rewarded as the orcs tramped to their final positions far below him. 

Already Annatar had proved himself shrewd; the elves' trebuchets had fallen limp and silent as they exhausted their supplies of ammunition in a postured display of defence, yet how worthless it was in the end. For how many tedious hours had he spoken of the optimum trajectories of those catapults, with Celebrimbor and Taranië, Captain of the Guard, he had analysed in meticulous detail their ranges and area capabilities, and painfully easy now it was to outwit them.

A horn-call sounded from far below, and at Annatar’s gesture a nearby uruk blasted upon a trumpet in reply. With a rumble the orc battalions advanced with impudence towards Ost-in-Edhil’s walls, and the shiver of fear that bled through the city was almost palpable. How they must be racking their empty little brains, Annatar mused, for no siege engines had he brought, no battering rams nor catapults of his own save a few score ballistae, and those yet remained silent. Implacably his orcs strode forward towards those impenetrable walls, their thick shields raised as bowshot hailed down upon them in their furious press forward towards those blank ramparts. Fruitless surely it seemed, but no longer, for as the front lines came to around five score metres from the outer palisades, Annatar withdrew from a chain about his neck the Ring, and with the promise of victory already stirring in his heart, he placed it upon his finger.

Power surged through his veins, it crackled at his fingertips, but swiftly he mastered it, he sent it arching beyond himself and out into the earth, into the very walls of the city. Through the stones he slipped, he spread his black will, and ruin flowed in his wake. For he scratched through mortar and concrete and he bade them come undone, from the grinding stones he ripped out those pockets of his puissance he had laid hidden and dormant within them all those years ago, and now he bade them splinter, fragment, _explode_. 

Granite cracked, mortar puffed into choking, grey dust, and a great wail arose from the defenders as their very walls betrayed them, as stones were shaken loose and fell, and crashed into others, and brought them down in their tumult. Piece by piece Annatar ripped those walls down; black spellcraft arced and sizzled through the air until the stones slumped into bruised piles of rubble, littered with splintered wood and broken bodies. Finally he withdrew his power, and when the dust cleared over those once-proud walls now left rent and gasping, his vanguard of uruks advanced, and the trolls and orcs and howling beasts behind them, and they put the city to the slaughter.

A half hour later, with his troops’ initial flood through the city assured, Annatar entered Ost-in-Edhil, on foot and with one wicked knife grasped in hand he scaled the rubble of the walls, and onwards into the dying city he walked.

Atrocities flanked him in grotesque procession; he grinned as he saw his beasts slaked in gore, as trolls pounded bodies dead and dying into the ground with their maces, as the gutters ran red with charnel and fingers twitched beneath cairns of broken masonry. Flames licked at the sky in the eastern quarters of the city; the docks were set alight, and before him companies of orcs poured at will through the collapsed gates of the courtesan’s circle, their greedy eyes alight with glee and swords wetted in viscera. A bell tolled wildly from a tower overlooking the gate, and as Annatar passed it by he glimpsed its insides gutted in red, and the bell-ringers swaying like limp, bloodied pendulums from their charge’s ropes knotted about their throats.

Along the main road through the upper circle Annatar strolled; bodies darted and screeched through the hollows of buildings, the ring of combat and the howls of beasts slipped in between the bell’s wild tolls, ravens _tokked_ and cawed atop piles of rubble as he passed them by, but none could sway him from his purpose. If the Three were still in the city then there was only one place they would be stored, Annatar had long since divined, and to those halls he sauntered his idle way.  

With precision honed from millennia of combat training he whirled to jab his knife through the chinstrap of some elf soldier fool enough to challenge him, and even as he flicked the gore from his knife’s tip he walked onwards. A child screamed over the corpse of its mother in the centre of the road and Annatar felt only hatred for it, for its lowly squalling and the _nis_ below it with her skirts bloody and torn; the child howled out its anguish until suddenly it fell silent. It slumped forward with a gurgle and the hilt of Annatar’s knife jutting from its eye socket. Upon his way he retrieved his blade, with a snarl of disgust he snatched it free of the child’s body, and scarcely bothering to wipe it clean he strode onwards. 

Voices called from the wayside, they pleaded, they begged for clemency, for death even, and hatefully Annatar ignored them. He kicked aside the blackened, flayed arm of a man who clawed for his ankle, with a vicious snarl upon his face he drove his knife through the belly of a _ner_ who leapt at him, and left entrails slopping to the ground in his wake. 

Finally he came to it, the domed hall of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and though a great company of orcs milled about its forecourt and defiled the buildings that stood at the edge of the square, none had dared venture over the threshold of the hall’s lowest stair. A cheer took up as Annatar strode through the orcs’ ranks, they parted before him like butter before a searing knife, and at the head of their company he met with their captain Múgog and exchanged a brief word of counsel. 

The upper circle of the city was overthrown, the orc growled, and the lower levels overrun. The noble house atop the hill was ransacked, and prisoners taken where his troops were able, but none had challenged neither the Gwaith-i-Mírdain’s hall nor its guardian, as Annatar had commanded. Crisply the Maia nodded, he sheathed his knife at his side and loosened the straps holding his bow, but he bade the company of orcs have patience as alone and empty handed he stepped forward to the base of the marble stairs.

Haughtily he looked upon the stones that for a time he had called his home and his workplace, his war-stained eyes flicked upwards to the lone elf lord that stood valiantly before the hall’s barred and bolted doors, and a disdainful smirk curled over his face.

"May I pass?”

Annatar’s entreaty was almost gentle; the breeze wafted his hair into a golden corona about his head, yet wryly he awaited the inevitable reply. 

“No,” Celebrimbor said; his eyes wandered the snarling mass of orcs that lay siege to him, to the traitorous cur that stood so arrogantly below him, and black anger kindled in his stomach. “You may not.”

Clad in magnificent silver armour he stood before the door, he raised his sword and jewel-studded shield in defiance, and the look upon his face was thunderous as loss and rage and such vicious, gutting _betrayal_ stabbed through him anew, as it ignited within him and wreathed him in its furore. Yet casually Annatar sauntered up the stairs, and cautiously Celebrimbor let him come, for the Maia had drawn no weapon, and a gallant smile wove across his lips. But as Annatar first set foot atop the dais how quickly Celebrimbor raised his sword, his eyes narrowed with hate as the very sight of the Maia only slammed home anew his blindness, his foolishness, and Annatar drew to a clipped halt some ten paces short of where the elf lord stood. 

Smooth still was his smile, and near nonchalant his air, but a lie curdled upon his breath. “Stand aside, Tyelpë,” he said softly, almost genuinely. “I would yet spare you an evil fate.”

“Your right to that name is forfeit,” the elf hissed, and such _loathing_ burned in his eyes that Annatar revelled to see it. “You are no friend of mine.”

“It could yet be otherwise,” the Maia replied levelly, “if you would but yield to me what I desire.”

“No!” Celebrimbor spat, he hefted his shield and his sword point gleamed thirstily in the light. A livid scowl contorted his face, and for a moment fey in kind he seemed, like some scion of Fëanáro’s wrath come again to Arda’s shores, crowned in madness and in desperation as he cried, “No thing of mine will I surrender to you, Maia! Deceiver I name you, faithless and accursed. I will not prostitute myself or mine to you like some common whore bartering for trade. I do not parley with thralls of Morgoth come skulking from their exile. Whine your way back to your master’s ghostly heel and simper to him for mercy, for you shall receive none from me!”

Hatred blazed in his dark eyes, he near trembled with the force of his abhorrence, yet Annatar stood unmoved by such feeble attempts at intimidation.

“This is needless,” he said calmly, imploringly; the lies flowed like silver over his tongue. “Yield to me the Three and we will find our peace, you have my word.” 

So fervently Annatar hoped the elf would hearken to him, though it would be to no avail. He would have shot an arrow through his throat the moment he set down his shield. How he would have savoured the delectable expression caught across the elf lord’s arrogant face as the life was bled from him, as he spluttered, as he drowned in his own blood and Annatar left him twitching upon the floor. 

“Crawl back into the vile hole from whence you came, slave!”

An aggrieved look came over Annatar’s face then, almost disappointed he seemed, and with a weary sigh he began to turn aside. Celebrimbor watched him in confusion, for the slightest of instants his shield wavered, it drifted from the press of his guarded stance, and in that instant Annatar whirled. 

Faster than mortal eyes could follow his bow was grappled into hand, and a vicious arrow he sent scudding through the air towards the elf lord. It clove a bloodied furrow across the side of Celebrimbor’s exposed neck, a scant inch from his jugular, for in that flurried second it was the brutal instinct to move that had spared Celebrimbor from that fate. For a moment he gasped, air flooded into his lungs and with it came anger, came outrage, came _fury_ , and with a snarl of utter revulsion torn across his face he launched at Annatar, his sword keen and deadly. And with a rueful click of his tongue Annatar flung his bow aside, he shrugged his two knives from their sheathes and the clatter of his parry sent a thrill of arousal down his spine. 

To the left Annatar darted, he flicked one knife out towards the elf’s side but agilely Celebrimbor dodged the blade, and sent a cleaving blow arching towards Annatar’s head in return. Fiercely the Maia swept both knives up to meet it, with his right he knocked the blow aside and through that quick torsion he thrust forward with his left, a sweeping reach that sent Celebrimbor skidding one hasty step backwards as the knife near sheared across his breastplate. Swiftly Annatar turned, one sharp jab he sent towards Celebrimbor’s stomach, but the elf’s shield smashed it aside, and he rode the momentum of that force to gather himself quickly into a more guarded stance. 

And none too soon, for the elf rained a flurry of sword strikes upon him, his dark eyes glittering with wrath as he stabbed towards Annatar’s side. Yet smoothly the Maia parried him, dodged him, out-stepped him, a perverse waltz before the Gwaith-i-Mírdain’s doors Celebrimbor set to the tempo of steel, but somehow it seemed like Annatar was still leading the dance, was goading him, _mocking him_ in his passive defences. A daring blow curving towards Celebrimbor’s wrist severed such contemplations, Annatar’s knife skidded awkwardly from the elf’s plated gauntlet, yet the force of that strike was inhuman, infected by blackest sorcery from the Ring blazing upon Annatar’s forefinger, and it sent Celebrimbor staggering backwards in shock.

No reprieve was he granted; with a flick of his left knife the Maia sent his sword skittering aside, whilst viciously he kicked forward, he landed a jarring blow upon the very epicentre of Celebrimbor’s shield. And how the elf yelped as that ensorcelled kick dented the metal, it near shattered Celebrimbor’s arm beneath it, and frantically he ripped the mangled shield from him and flung it aside. Pain flared up his arm from that awful blow, through a grimace he re-gripped his sword within his right hand, he fought desperately to quell the exhaustion that suddenly trembled through his fingers as they closed anew about the hilt. He would not let Annatar win, he would not let the Gwaith-i-Mírdain fall and their treasures be plundered, he _would not_ , and fiercely then he swung a wide blow towards the Maia’s side. 

With sickening ease it was deflected, slower now came his thrusts as his left arm ached, as fatigue and shock began to take their toll, and all too late he came to parry Annatar’s whirling strike that ripped his sword from his hand and sent it crashing to the stones. Agony tore through his arm, his fingers clutched upon air, and an instant later a dirty kick to the base of his stomach sent him toppling, sent his knees crumpling to the floor. Desperately he gagged, instinct left him helpless as he doubled over and retched, as he tried to force the air back into his lungs paralysed by that awful blow. He simply clutched at his stomach and he keened with the hurt of it, and the shrill warning of defeat screeched in his ears but powerless he was to heed it. Finally air whooped back into his chest, he spluttered and coughed as it came, and only then did he look up, only then did he notice Annatar standing over him.

His dented shield was in the Maia’s hand, a horrific light glittered in Annatar’s corrupted eyes, and seized with foreboding then words from years before floated tauntingly through his head. 

_Your uncle was a talented wordsmith… He had a strong shield-arm, so I have heard tell…_

“N-no,” he spluttered, he saw the shield in Annatar’s hand and the unearthly look upon the Maia’s face; memory crashed into the present and dragged up only his blindness, his stupidity, and with true terror in his eyes he blinked up at Annatar then. “Please, Annatar… Annatar wait - ” 

“How the fates adore their little ironies.”

And with that lilting remark left stinging in the air Annatar twisted, and he clouted the shield across Celebrimbor’s blanching face. Bloodied lines ripped open over the elf’s cheek, over the bridge of his nose, and like a puppet severed from its strings Celebrimbor dropped hard to the cold stones below; his shoulder and back crunched into the marble and lifelessly he lay sprawled. 

A great roar of approval sounded from below, at Múgog’s command the assembled ranks of orcs pressed forward up the stairs, and as parted about him and the fallen lord he sent the doors of the halls squealing open with no more than a thought, and the Ring pulsed out its power from his finger. Unmoved Annatar stood as the orcs rushed past him, and calmly he sheathed his knives, before nudging at the elf’s body. As for all its ferocity that shield-blow was calculated, angled; it would not break vital bone nor sever nerves, and as he moved the elf’s chin with the point of his boot smugly he glimpsed the frantic flicker of a pulse through a turgid vein in the elf’s neck. 

Celebrimbor’s cheek was purpling from the trauma as Múgog ascended the stairs at the rear of his company, and as he approached he spat a thick gobbet of saliva down upon the stricken lord. 

“Kill him now, m’lord,” the orc snarled to Annatar. “Filthy _snaga…”_

“Nay,” the Maia replied gently, he flicked the sweaty sweep of his hair back from his face as he continued, “He is of use to us yet. If the Three may not be found nor yielded freely, then we will rip them from him.”

At their feet Celebrimbor stirred suddenly, a moan crawled over his lips, and two pairs of eyes flicked sharply to the twitch in the elf’s mailed fingers. 

“M’lord,” Múgog frowned, “Is this wisdom? Those of his kind, his bloodline… They have slipped loose before…”

“The lessons of history bear no need for repetition,” Annatar said blandly, and venom laced his every word as over Celebrimbor’s pain-racked body he sneered, “There is nobody coming to save him.”

The tread of Annatar’s boot crunched steadily down upon Celebrimbor’s exposed throat; the elf lord convulsed weekly beneath that choking pressure before falling limp once more.

“Bind him,” Annatar commanded, “and put him somewhere out of sight.”

Raw, seething waves of victory smashed through his heart as he beheld the elf lord crippled below him, and his precious halls violated. Vicious then was his smile as Múgog nodded, as Annatar turned once more to the torn-open aperture of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain’s once mighty doors, and the gluttonous thoughts of what treasures lay within, ripe for the reaping. 

“ _I shall deal with him later_.”

 

 

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_Thanks to everyone for your patience with the admitted slowness of this update, and I sincerely hope that it was worth it in the end. And alas, we have reached the end of the Seven Deadly Sins, but did you know that in the olden days there used to be more than seven? Poor Celebrimbor has one sin left to divulge, and if you know your canon then you'll know how well this is about to end. Therefore: once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, and we shall return for the final chapter just as quickly as I can write it! Much love, theeventualwinner xx  _

 


	8. Vanagloria

_A tiny thing before we begin: some HUGE WARNINGS for **torture** and **non-con** in this chapter, so if you're not feeling up for it then turn around now, and for your own peace of mind pretend that this story has a happy ending._

* * *

 

 

Muted, yellowish light speckled before Celebrimbor’s eyes when at last they cracked open. A grimace contorted his face as a hideous pressure throbbed at his temples, nausea lurched up from his stomach and for a while he lay still, tenderly blinking through the film of grime that stuck his eyelids together as slowly he came to himself. Thoughts blurred through his mind like ephemeral little eels, greased and inchoate; something was wrong, he couldn’t see, he was _hurting_ , and through an aching jaw he groaned as the pressure upon his temples only seemed to redouble in ferocity with that realisation.

With a tremendous effort of will at last he forced himself to stir; he drew one deep, rancid breath past the cloth gag that pried his jaws awkwardly apart, and though congealed saliva and drying blood coated his tongue in the foul tang of iron, somehow it helped to steady him. Cramped muscles flexed, thin cord bit suddenly into his wrists that were pinioned tightly at his back, and like the pieces of some abhorrent puzzle being slowly crunched together, self-awareness filtered back to him. Upon his side he lay; his injured cheek burned as it pressed into a cold surface beneath him, and a tentative wriggle belied the cloth of a blindfold and the gag tugging at his lips. A far more certain squirm sent his booted foot clanging off something solid below him, spasms of pain raced up his leg, but with their discomfort clarity came that much sharper.

They had stripped him of his armour, that much at least he could tell. The linen of his shirt and breeches itched with dried sweat, the silver circlet he bore was tangled into the mess of his hair, and his head pounded as once more he kicked outwards, as the percussion of metal clashed in his ears. Annatar was there, he remembered, and the breath quickened in his throat as the Maia’s vile, beautiful smile danced before his eyes. A shield, _his_ shield, it had gleamed in the Maia’s hand; Annatar’s eyes had burned and they were _wrong_ , gold and red and terrible, a traitor’s eyes, a traitor’s smile; and the gutting realisation of his folly crashed back down upon him.   

Yet desperately he clamped down upon such perilous thoughts, as vigour trickled back into his limbs he cried out behind his gag, he writhed within his bonds; he would not be held captive in his own city, he would not so ignobly be forgotten, he would not - 

“ _Quiet_.” 

A guttural voice sounded from somewhere beside him, alien and menacing, and the first shiver of fear clove through his rising furore. For if he was made captive, if the Lord of Eregion was taken then surely that was the utmost collapse of his people, and trepidation stole through him at the thought. What had become of his city then, abandoned, crippled; what had they done to the people that he loved, to the things that he adored, to everything that he had failed in his blindness. Yet swiftly such thoughts spun aside; it was not his failure but Annatar’s _betrayal_ , it was the Maia’s treachery, and viciously he clutched to that justification as anger erupted through his heart.

Hard he kicked against the thing that trammelled him, an indignant cry he squalled behind his gag. Fury hummed in his veins, it ignited within him, it set him ablaze with its wrath and its horror and he slammed his heels into the metal, his shoulders jerked and heaved against the cord about his wrists, the first tremors of panic lent strength to his rage and he _screamed_ through the cloth that bound him. They would not ignore him; this injustice could not be endured, he would sooner be slain than submit to this humiliation meekly, and abandon his city to Annatar’s clutches. 

Moments later Celebrimbor’s struggles were answered: metal creaked above him, air flushed over his skin as something was yanked back, and he had scarcely drawn new breath into his lungs when suddenly he was hauled upwards, clawed hands dug into his shoulders and legs and dragged him out. He grunted in surprise as abruptly he was dropped, his knees slammed into the marble below him, and blinded and bound he scrabbled for one awful, disorientating moment before he was seized once more. Forward they dragged him, his bruised knees slid across the floor until a jerk upon his shoulders pulled him up short.

He struggled and spat as he was relinquished, he reeled in the sudden light as the blindfold and gag were torn from him. The chamber unveiled in its brightness was blinding, so familiar and yet so awfully changed. The marble of his council chamber was despoiled; anger churned in his stomach as he beheld the walls scratched and vandalised, the _mithril_ star upon the floor stripped of its metal and the stained glass windows painted over in crude glyphs and glaring crimson eyes. The high table was broken; its semi-circular top was cloven in two, and maroon stains crusted about its edges. Behind it chairs were strewn, and boxes piled high: chests and crates and immense jars of viscous liquids divulged from the deepest vaults of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain’s cellars were flung into one haphazard pile. All were stamped, all were branded with a seal of the Red Eye, bold and accusing; and Celebrimbor seethed as he looked beyond them, as he beheld the dark smears of blood that daubed over wood and glass alike.

It was to the broken aperture of the table that Celebrimbor’s gaze finally shifted; to the figure that stood there smirking down at him, and anger roared through Celebrimbor’s heart at the loathsome sight. Radiant and victorious the Maia stood, armoured in blackened plate steel, and broken glass crunched in his gauntleted hand. The gemstones that had once shone so brilliantly in the backing of Celebrimbor’s lordly chair were gouged out and shattered; their shards tinkled to the floor like deathly little stars and mellifluously the Maia smiled as he let them fall.

And in that dreadful moment silence proved too great a strain; black, ravening fury ignited in Celebrimbor’s chest and into the quiet of the hall he spat, “Fuck you, Annatar. Fuck you and horse you fucking rode in on!”     

With fey eyes the Maia regarded him, the red that now ringed his golden irises belied only disdain, and a faint smile curled the edge of his handsome lips.

“What have you done?” It was all that Celebrimbor could do not to buckle with the force of the hatred that came clamouring up his throat. “ _What the fuck have you done?_ ” 

“I have cleansed this world of an abhorrence beneath its skies.” Annatar’s voice was unearthly, at once familiar and yet warped: thicker and richer and swimming with malevolence. Maddeningly calm he stood, secure in his smugness and his victory, and filled with odium Celebrimbor struggled against the bonds that claimed him, until a hefty uruk clapped its hand down upon his shoulder and forced his immobility. “I have razed your squalid city to its foundations, and I have spoiled the stones beneath it. I have claimed what I will, what I am owed for my labours here, and I have left the rest to rot.”

“You are owed nothing in these lands!” Celebrimbor growled. “You are nothing but the snivelling ghost of your foul master come slithering from your hole. False I name you, deceiver, hollow-tongued and craven! No thing of mine may you claim, not while I draw breath!”

A strange, almost serene expression drifted over Annatar’s face, yet shattered glass crunched between his gauntleted fingers as they curled slowly into a fist. In one languid motion he vaulted down from the ruined dais, he sauntered towards the captive elf, and in the beauty that drenched him there was nothing but guile. 

“Come now, Tyelpë,” he drawled; and Celebrimbor balked at the sound of his name upon those handsome lips. “There is little need to be hostile, yet I would temper your tongue lest evil befall it.” 

Motes of dust glimmered in the golden aura about Annatar’s shoulders, the Maia’s hair fell in honeyed waves about his face as he leaned forward, as smoothly he continued, “Your stores we have searched, and through your house we have hunted, and whilst many a treasure we have accrued, three small things yet elude us. Three rings of your making, _my lord_ , three humble rings that gladly I would accept into my possession. I would have you tell me where they might be found, where they are secluded or to whom they are entrusted, and by this knowledge you might barter yet for your freedom, or for what remains of your city that you care to salvage. Speak reasonably now, let us take counsel together as we once did, and this matter might yet be resolved without undue misfortune.” 

The audacity of the Maia’s demand stole the breath from Celebrimbor’s lungs. For a moment he merely blinked, astonishment twisted in his throat and he stifled the sudden urge to laugh, to bark out his disgust and the immutable stubbornness that flared up beneath it. Refusal settled like a leaden weight within his stomach: the locations of the Three he _would not_ yield, even at the end of all things he would thwart Annatar in this, those rings would never be defiled or enthralled; he would see the Maia seething in his spite even should the cost prove dear.

That purpose solidified within him, with fey strength it defined him, and in response he whispered only one thing.

“Liar.”

Defiance surged in his heart, and he glared up at Annatar with hatred in his eyes.

“Liar!” he cried. “Take your pretences of mercy elsewhere, for I will not hear them! I would not trust a single word that comes crawling over your faithless lips! You stand there like a proud lord of old, but you are corrupt, Annatar, you are baseless, you make your promises and with the same words you sharpen your knives. I will not aid you in this, not now and not ever. Whine your way back to the heel of your master and grovel for his forgiveness, for I see you now, accursed and friendless, carrion-spawned, and your worthless entreaties do not move me!” 

A fell light kindled in Annatar’s eyes, the uruk’s grip upon his shoulder tightened, but fury steeled Celebrimbor’s spirit, and he did not quail as the Maia gazed coldly down upon him. 

“You would have seen me crowned once, Tyelpë.”

Sorcery crawled over Annatar’s armour, the Ring blazed upon his finger, and dreadful was his voice, slicked in such foul seduction. Yet tightly Celebrimbor clung to his anger, the strength of his own convictions would not be so easily swayed, and viciously he spat, “I see you crowned now only in treachery, thick as lice about your skull.” 

The silence that settled was ghastly. Celebrimbor’s heartbeat was too loud in his ears. An awful smile curled over Annatar’s lips, serene still he seemed but for the black puissance that crackled its hatred about him, but gently then he reached forward. His armoured fingers scratched over Celebrimbor’s injured cheek, but hard the elf gritted his teeth; he would not give Annatar the pleasure of crying out, of flinching, and hatefully he endured the Maia’s touch. 

“Cruel, isn’t it?” Annatar purred, before at last he turned aside.  “When all our fickle pretences are stripped away. What _dirty_ things they reveal…”

“ _You filthy little cu_ -“  

A savage clout across the face sent Celebrimbor reeling; the uruk who grasped him took all too much delight in seeing him splutter as it bellowed, “Respect your master!”

Through bloodied teeth Celebrimbor grimaced, though every muscle in him ached pride forced him to straighten once more, and at Annatar’s turned back he hissed, “You are not my master!”

“Am I not?” the Maia mused, before idly turning back about. His corrupt gaze lingered upon the livid mark purpling across the elf’s cheek, and cimmerian joy blazed in his heart as reddened saliva glistened upon Celebrimbor’s lips. Towards the elf he sauntered once more, with vicious caprice he ripped the silver circlet from Celebrimbor’s brow, and for a moment turned it within his fingers.

“Your little crown is so dainty a thing…” He revelled in the scowl that crossed the elf’s brows, in the fruitless shakes of his shoulders as he fought against his bonds. “So easily broken.”

Coldly Annatar grasped the circlet, he snapped it clean in two and sent the broken pieces clattering to the floor. 

“Fuck you…” the elf spat, but dismay rocked then through his heart as an ugly, victorious leer contorted Annatar’s features. 

With predatory purpose the Maia stalked forward, and in a voice that could have set the mountains themselves blushing in their shame he whispered, “Well, don’t we know how much you _want_ to.” 

The derision in Annatar’s voice cut down to the bone. Guilt and fear and horror twisted in Celebrimbor’s innards, and drenched in his ignominy he knelt silently then. Breath hissed between his parted, reddened lips; desperately he tried not to gag as betrayal seemed to choke him anew, as the cloying taste of blood grated over his tongue. And for the first time true despair wavered through him, he bowed his head to hide the hot, stupid tears that prickled behind his eyes, and above him Annatar only sneered. 

“Take him below,” the Maia commanded of the uruk who held him. “Give him to Lommur and his knives, and to Yulvur. Perhaps then his conversation might be made more seemly.” 

Eagerly the uruk hauled Celebrimbor upwards, and it was only as another seized him also by the opposing shoulder that he found the strength within himself to struggle once more. Desperately he kicked, he bucked in their grip, in every tongue he knew he cursed the Maia to the darkest vaults of the Void as he was dragged away, but Annatar stood unmoved. 

Impassively he watched as the elf lord floundered, and as his receding screeches echoed still from the corridor outside, how smugly then he smiled. 

The elf would break, one way or another, of that he was certain. Whether by whip or claw or knife or the slow decay of time, the elf’s arrogance would be purged, and in screams or tears his secrets would be wrenched forth. On his worthless knees the elf would keen for Annatar’s mercy, he would lick his pleas into the Maia’s fingers like some shaking dog cowering before the rod, and then might treachery taste all the sweeter. 

The elf’s cries lingered amid the cloisters of the chamber; obscenities tinged with panic shivered from the walls, and glutted by his own caprice Annatar turned. Back atop the dais he strode, and from the plundered stack of goods at last divested a small lump of powdery, white chemical; a harsh vesicant used typically in the foundering of steel. 

His call brought a servile orc scurrying into the hall, and its green eyes gleamed eagerly as it stood at attention before its lord. Languidly Annatar walked back to the main floor, and his heart thrummed with glee as he juggled the chemical in his gloved hand. 

“Take this to Yulvur,” he commanded of the orc, whose brow furrowed into a frown as Annatar deposited the chemical into its hoary palm. “A gift, for our newest guest.” 

“M’lord?” 

A few caustic flakes Annatar brushed from his gauntlet, and dreadful malice glittered in his eyes as he commanded, “Wash his mouth out with it.”

 

* * *

 

Smoke drifted wearily from the stricken city, it smudged in ashen bruises over the sky, and upon the balcony of Celebrimbor’s house a glossy raven curled its claws into the quilts of Annatar’s sleeve. The great bird _tokked_ softly, it preened its furled wings before settling to a contended perch upon the Maia’s arm, and together it and Annatar gazed out over the wounded lands.

The city’s lower circles were barren: curtains billowed from smashed, lifeless windows, doors blasted with ash creaked mournfully upon their hinges, and the reek of death clung in the alleys. Ravens and wolves feasted amid bodies strewn where they fell, elves and men alike were left charred and rotting in the streets save where the orcs kicked them aside to make way for their own devices. The main thoroughfares of the city Annatar had ordered made passable, and teams of bellowing trolls had laboured by the shadows of night to haul aside shattered masonry and broken carts to ensure the freedom of the main roads. 

At the gates that cleft the upper and lower circles a ceaseless watch was kept, keen eyes spied also upon the lands without, and none were suffered to pass the lands of Hollin save by Annatar’s consent. Unwary travellers were snatched from their horses, and even amid the shell of the city survivors might be found: some mewling child shivering in an unbroken cellar, or a fierce maiden clutching her starving babe, or a defiant man still praying to his uncaring gods for salvation. Such prizes were rare, but in the foulest watches of the night, in reeking pits delved into the lowest dungeons of the Elven watchtowers, how succulent they were.

Amid the smaller courtesan’s circle Annatar’s captains thronged alongside the elite of their companies. Dark banners fluttered from many a crumbling turret or blackened minaret, and amid despoiled arbours and withered fountains the troops revelled in the spoils and industries of war. Plundered goods from the Gwaith-i-Mírdain’s halls and from the courtly houses were smelted down and remade; priceless artefacts of slender armour and weaponry were reduced to crude slabs of metal, and from the once-proud halls of Eregion’s jewel-wrights poured forth jagged scimitars and the clumsy chain-mail of orcish fashion, strong troll-chains and cruel spurs, and countless other devices of brutish purpose. What was left unmolested of the cellars were raided, the foundries Annatar saw worked night and day, and above the husk of that noble hall, and over the pale marble of Celebrimbor’s house Annatar raised his banner in triumph. The Red Eye glared proudly from huge bolts of sable cloth, and under that monstrous gaze all made obeisance to him.

Gluttonous then was the Maia’s mood as he gazed out over the city, and _righteous_ , and how perversely then his virtues amused him. So much he had sacrificed for this moment; in dignity, in pride to humble himself and labour at Celebrimbor’s whims, to submit himself to the Noldor’s sycophantic smiles and their blind, clawing greed; to allow himself to be used, to tolerate the elf lord’s repellent advances, to permit even one filthy hand to be laid in lust upon him. Disgust boiled in his blood at the thought, and though such grievances had come to wondrous fruition in the end, resentment of such ignobility simmered in him, and it would not easily be forgotten. 

The Ring of Power blazed upon his finger, and the lands of the North fell in tumult as he laid siege to them. Like ravening beasts loosed from their shackles his troops swept across the fells of Eregion, he would scythe through whatever pitiful defences the Quendi sought to rally and sow his terror; proud Gil-galad, shivering Círdan by the waves, Galadriel cloistered in her forests, all would be thrown before him in chains, and gladly he would see them suffer. The Naugrim hid their faces from the sun; as Ost-in-Edhil fell there too withered the tentative alliance between Elves and Dwarves, and contemptuously Annatar regarded their craven, feral ways. Let them delve themselves into the bowels of the earth, he thought, and there they might dig the pits of their own destruction. He would conquer an empire that would make even his master of old seethe with jealousy, an empire of marrow and bone, blood and rot, and he its king in glory and might unchallengeable. Such luxurious thoughts curled within him, and contentedly he lingered upon the balcony, and the raven croaked its foul secrets and to them he hearkened. 

A sharp rap upon the chamber doors at last interrupted them, and at his beckon an orc entered. Pliers and hooks hung from its wide belt, knives jostled with twisted, bladed instruments of torment in a stained bandoleer slung across its chest, and neatly Yulvur bowed before its lord. 

“The _snaga_ is ready as you ordered, my lord,” it snarled, and graciously Annatar nodded. With a nudge of his arm the raven took flight, and as it wheeled away like a swift shadow over the city Annatar turned his attentions to the orc, and the frown that knotted its wiry brows. In its years of service Yulvur had earned high regard; its workrooms deep beneath the dungeons of Barad-dûr yielded only pain, amid monstrous contraptions of iron and leather none were more adept at wringing information from an unwilling prisoner, and Annatar would not lightly discount its good opinion.

“What troubles you, Yulvur?” he asked, not unkindly, as he wandered back through his chambers. A goblet of wine he refreshed from a gilded flagon upon a nearby table, and quickly he drained it as the orc awaited him.

“Your… the _snaga_ is resilient, my lord,” it growled reluctantly, and displeasure darkened its slanted eyes. “Many things he screams, but not this. Not what you seek.”

“Perhaps then you have been sparing the whip.” The Maia’s voice was cold; an unpleasant quirk passed over Yulvur’s lips, but the orc did not reply, and at its lord’s command accompanied him to the dungeons.  

The cellars of the house were newly re-shaped in crude mortar and reinforced iron, and to the furthest one Annatar followed his chief torturer, and nodded to the jailor posted outside, before dismissing them to their duties and entering the cell. 

Restless torchlight flickered across the cobblestones as the door slammed shut; it illumined only a single chair bolted to the floor at the cell’s centre, and its miserable occupant. A week or so had turned since the city had fallen, since Annatar had entrusted his most prized captive to Yulvur’s capable hands and Lommur’s whittling knives, and certainly they had been valiant in their efforts. Blood oozed from raw whip-wheals that sliced across the elf’s shoulders, each shallow breath set dirty bruises and blistered, broken skin undulating across the elf’s ribs and naked torso. Bound wrist and ankle to the chair by thick metal restraints, a wide leather collar was clasped also about the elf’s neck, and sadistic glee warmed Annatar’s heart as he glimpsed just how tightly it was fastened, as he saw the cutting, reddened abrasions that ringed the elf’s throat.

Inconsequential at first was the elf’s belligerence, he had thought; in the days after the city’s fall he had busied himself with the conduct of war, and had left his torturers to their work. Yet as time flowed onwards the elf’s stubbornness was beginning to grate, and the first trickle of frustration sent Annatar’s fingers twitching for weapons of his own accord. 

Menacingly now he stalked forward, and how he delighted as the elf flinched before him. 

“Stay the fuck away from me…” The tightness of the collar garbled Celebrimbor’s words slightly, the chemical ulcers in his mouth had only just begun to heal and around them he spoke carefully, but defiantly still he raised his head. “Stay away!” 

“Manners are so hard to come by in this age…” The sly nonchalance in Annatar’s voice set Celebrimbor’s skin crawling, he winced as raw flesh grated across his back, for the veiled peril in the Maia’s tone sent him instinctively recoiling. Closer still Annatar sauntered, the tilt of his hips was so bitterly familiar, and shame warred with furore in him as sweetly the Maia continued, “Uncle Maitimo was far more polite.” 

“Fuck you, Annatar.” The words bled low and ruthless from Celebrimbor’s lips. “Fuck– “

Black puissance crackled through the room, it scratched at the very walls, it scourged through Celebrimbor’s veins like white lines of fire clawed beneath his skin. A satisfied smirk rolled over Annatar’s lips as the elf jerked and writhed before him, as a thin screech tore from him as for one blinding, agonising moment those horrifying sensations became unbearable, until suddenly they were severed. In his bonds Celebrimbor slumped, desperately he gasped in a lungful of air beneath that strangling collar, but though the aftershocks of pain thudded through him, swiftly he mastered himself. He would not give Annatar the pleasure of seeing him quail, of seeing him cry, he would not do it, and slowly, stubbornly, he raised his chin once more. 

The glint in Annatar’s eyes was almost admiring, but his tone would have withered leaves upon the branch. “You miscalculate, Tyelperinquar. I do not come to bandy crude words with a wretch like you, and my tolerance of your insurrections grows thin. You will tell me what I wish to know, and you will tell me now. Where are the Three, and to whom are they bestowed?” 

Grim laughter gurgled out of Celebrimbor’s throat, and gladly he watched the Maia’s lips purse.

“I will not barter with some foul grimalkin come skulking from the fens,” he retorted. A raw ulcer wept its stinging bile as he spoke, it stained his teeth a watery pink, but still he spat, “You do not frighten me!”

“Oh, Tyelpë…”

Annatar lunged forward; his hand locked about Celebrimbor’s left forearm, the Ring pulsed out its evil and from below the Maia’s clenched fingers came the sickening crunch of bone, and a moment later Celebrimbor _shrieked_ as agony blazed through him. Desperately, instinctively he bucked forwards, he near shredded the skin from his wrists as he sought to clutch his shattered arm to him, but his bonds would not give an inch, and in vain he flexed back against the chair. 

A series of guttural moans bled from behind his gritted teeth, and impassively Annatar watched until at last those frantic noises calmed, and he leant forward once more.

“What I ask of you is so simple, Tyelpë. I desire only that you tell me the whereabouts of these rings. It is information, nothing more, as might be told between friends…” A flirtatious smile rolled over Annatar’s lips, and gently he took Celebrimbor by the cheek. Softly he stroked his thumb over the elf’s cheekbone, encouragingly he grinned, coyly he tilted his head, but the warmth of his gestures bore only cruel contrast to the venom in his eyes. “For we are in friendly company here, are we not?” 

“Fu-“

Puissance erupted through the room; bone ruptured, and a howl of anguish tore from Celebrimbor’s throat as his humerus snapped clean in two, as Annatar’s sorcery clove it apart. Breath skidded in over his teeth; desperately, helplessly he clenched within his bonds as agony slammed through him. White and pounding, it sent pinpricks of light flashing across his vision, and through gritted teeth he keened as wave after wave of blossoming pain gripped him. For a while Annatar simply beheld him; he glutted in the tendons that corded beneath the elf’s skin, the panicked, turgid veins that throbbed in the elf’s neck as he arched as far back as he was able. At last the elf’s groans subsided, though pain thudded like some obscene drumbeat through him slowly he came back to himself, and Annatar stepped forward once more.

In one languid, sensual motion he knelt between Celebrimbor’s spread knees, and so beseechingly, so falsely he blinked upwards.

“The Three, Tyelpë,” he murmured, and the lies flowed like honey over his tongue. “They are all that I ask of you, all that I require, and then all of this can go away. All of this pain, all of this hurt, it can be erased. I would see you crowned again, I would see all of this undone, I would kneel before you as I am now and I would worship you as a king, if only you would yield to me what I desire. Everything, my lord, I would give it all to you, if you would but tell me what I wish to know.” 

“You…” Celebrimbor breathed, “you can give nothing to me…” 

“You did so much to see me smile once,” Annatar continued; gently, slyly he ran his hands up Celebrimbor’s calves, over the ragged ends of his breeches. His fingers drummed a hollow tune upon the elf’s kneecaps. “Would you not see me smile now?” 

“Your smile s-sickens me…” Celebrimbor began, but how cruelly his speech fell apart as a gasp rocked over his lips, as Annatar raked his nails up his thighs. 

“Does it?” Puissance rolled behind Annatar’s words, unnatural lust kindled in Celebrimbor’s stomach; it sent humiliation storming through him at its very presence, yet helplessly he looked down. For still sublime Annatar was there kneeling between his legs; wetly, _obscenely_ the Maia’s parted lips glistened in the light, and perilous, shameful desire wrenched in Celebrimbor’s innards. For how long had he dreamed of it; of Annatar’s slender fingers sliding over his sides, of the golden, perfect light in his eyes as they treasured him, of the warmth of his lips as they wrapped all adoring and innocent around his cock, and how cruelly now such a thing was twisted around to taunt him.

A livid flush mottled over Celebrimbor’s chest, yet though temptation beckoned to him, cozened him, _begged_ for him, hard he yanked himself away from such horrors. It was a false light, a beguiling lure for the serpent that lurked beyond it; Annatar’s beauty was but a mask for the thing that festered inside of it. So much hurt his desires had wreaked already, so much pain had come from lust, his city had burned for it, and a snarl of renewed hatred contorted Celebrimbor’s features as he spat, “You cannot have them!”

The next bone was excruciating. A sadistic grin plucked at Annatar’s lips as his grip about the elf’s right thigh tightened, as puissance sparked upon his fingertips. His power he sent weaving through muscle, sliding through viscera, and layer by excruciating layer he flayed the bone alive. Far, _far_ beyond voluntary control Celebrimbor thrashed; blood splattered to the stones below him as the weals across his back tore open; it drooled from his wrists as he yanked against the bonds that held him. Ragged, whimpering breaths flickered out of his lungs, and rigid with pain he eventually froze as bone was stripped, was grated away in one unending bout of agony. 

Yet through the desperate, visceral noises that tore from him still he gurgled, “You cannot have them… you c-can’t –“

A horrific grunt of pain punched through the chamber as Annatar snapped clean through his femur, and suddenly Celebrimbor fell limp in his bonds. His head lolled forwards onto his chest, his bloodshot eyes flickered to a close, and Annatar clicked his tongue in displeasure. Such dramatics were _pitiful_ , he thought darkly, and with practised ease he unfurled his own power, he grasped the elf’s fleeing _fëa_ and with a spell in a corrupt, ancient tongue he anchored it once more within the _hröa._ A moment he waited, and oh how he _thrilled_ in the whimper that spasmed over Celebrimbor’s lips as the elf blinked back into a hazy consciousness that brought him no respite. 

“Did you think that little trick would save you, sweetling?” Annatar purred; a swell of caprice moved him and he tilted Celebrimbor’s chin to plant a delicate, sensual kiss upon his quivering lips. “There will not be so cowardly an escape, not for you.” 

Annatar’s lips were as searing metal pressed into his skin, the Maia trailed a constellation of blistering kisses over his cheeks. Yet through the ache of an injured _fëa,_ through the shock and humiliation that drenched him, still somehow Celebrimbor found the will to resist, and as best as he was able he jerked away from the Maia’s caresses. 

“Your stubbornness is admirable, Tyelpë” Annatar murmured; the words hovered with sick, shimmering clarity through the air. “Yet I fear that you misplace your resolve.”      

For how Celebrimbor screeched as his clavicle was broken; the elf’s wet, racking sobs punctuated Annatar’s entreaties, his threats, his lies. Yet such suffering brought the Maia little succour, save for the glee that he ripped from seeing the elf writhe so exquisitely before him. A howl echoed about the room as Celebrimbor’s kneecap was shattered, a desperate spray of watery blood coughed down his chest as the Maia’s touch cracked his sternum, yet though the merciful promise of unconsciousness roared in his ears with each new hurt, Annatar’s power kept him bound him to a nightmarish awakening.

The edges of the collar jutted hard into Celebrimbor’s chin as eventually his head lolled, as stress and exhaustion and pain truly took their toll, but though blood bubbled over his lips, hoarsely, helplessly, frantically still he croaked, “I will not t-tell you…”

“You will, Tyelpë.” Annatar’s voice was unearthly, and a grimace of utter revulsion twisted across his face as he beheld the broken elf before him. Reluctantly then he loosed his power, puissance flowed from the Ring upon his finger and into the elf’s shivering body; it slowly mended what was so callously broken that it might be broken again, it painted over old hurts and sewed the canvas anew for a fresh tapestry of pain, and Celebrimbor gasped and twitched as those alien sensations scratched through him. “You will tell me, in the end.” 

“You h-have nothing left,” the elf wheezed; relief and shock and numbing adrenaline spiralled through him and he sagged within his restraints, yet still he breathed, “You have nothing…” 

Grim, aching victory steeped him as finally Annatar withdrew, as the cell door slammed shut and he was left alone in the darkness. Yet even as the blank oblivion of exhausted sleep claimed him, the Maia’s final word haunted his dreams. 

“ _Incorrect_.”

 

* * *

 

The lands of Eriador withered, and gladly Annatar gave speed to their sickness. Battalions of orcs patrolled the high fells of Eregion, and great companies of uruks marched upon the isolated villages and set them aflame. To the south Tharbad burned; its ramshackle houses and hasty barricades collapsed in great heaps of cinders and rubble, and the Gwathló ran thick with ash and mangled debris. Lond Daer at the river’s mouth was besieged; a company under Ratask’s cunning command had cut across the desolate Enedwaith to marshal beyond the harbour city’s high walls. The fertile farmlands that banked the river they set ablaze and salted, its narrow mouth they dammed and upon it set an impregnable watch, and with hungry eyes and jeering mouths they awaited the city’s fall. Minhiriath and Cardolan quailed; their rolling hills groaned with the tramp of iron-shod boots upon them, as Annatar’s minions walked with impunity even unto the eastern banks of the Branduin. Yet the river itself they could not cross, for Gil-galad’s troops defended the passable meanders at Sarn Ford in great strength of arms, and the vanguard of uruks was not yet strong enough to dare their wrath.

Angmar brooded under an evil mist; the Coldfells of Rhudaur shivered as from Carn Dûm there flowed nothing but ghastly silence and the bitter tang of sorcery, and those who fled the grasping fogs whispered only of terrors amid the hills. The Naugrim of Khazad-dûm, better to name them as the stunted beasts that they were, Annatar thought, cowered behind their gates, and greatly he was pleased by their desertion. Ever he toyed with the Dwarven rings, to the One they were enslaved and into them he leached corruption; he twisted sense to madness, he blinded, he coerced, he made mute what might otherwise have screamed. The Sirannon was dammed in an impassable barricade of rock, Durin’s Doors were shut and the Moria Gate barred, and Annatar’s heart hummed with delight as they retreated into their caverns and came forth no more. For beyond the Branduin the Quendi were called to marshal; the Falathrim marched with baleen harpoons and forked tridents from Mithlond, the Noldor under Gil-galad trekked southwards clad in bitter wrath and steel, and banners dotted with silver stars unfurled in the wind as their companies swelled. 

Such tidings the ravens brought to Ost-in-Edhil; secrets skimmed throughout the North borne by black wings and croaking beaks, and Annatar once more called his captains to assembly. Smoothly tasks were assigned, plots and treacheries were argued and discarded, and as at last consensus was reached, the orcs prepared themselves for war. Knives were whetted anew, crude axes were smelted; the forges of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain were spurred to dark, ceaseless labour until the very stones that cradled them cried out in their agony. 

And alone and blind in the darkness below Celebrimbor listened to the grind of stone, to the harsh cry of metal, and for his lands he despaired. 

For how long they had left him there, fettered wrist and ankle and leashed to the wall by his collar like some neglected dog, he could not tell. Time seemed to blur into one unending nightmare, punctuated only by screams and silence and the hot flare of pain. Blood sluiced from the abraded, ruined skin at his wrists; scabs cracked and flaked and festered across his back as each tiny breath jostled flesh lacerated down to the bone. Pus and thin, fouled plasma inched over his bruised ribs, filth clung to his thighs; naked they had left him as they cut away what was left of his breeches, yet he dared not cling to himself, he dared not try to wipe himself clean.

He mustn’t touch himself, they had said, he was not deserving of such kindness, and as Yulvur’s pliers had torn into his skin then perhaps he began to believe them. He mustn’t touch himself, he was only a thing for hurting, a thing for abuse; and as he had bucked and screamed and sobbed, as one by excruciating one his fingernails were ripped from him, slowly he began to come apart. Skin was peeled back to expose the raw flesh below, skeins of cartilage were wrested free of their moorings, again and again they did it until there was nothing left but redness, and the spluttering breaths between his tears. Every touch became hateful, as in their spite that had condemned him to the darkness he scarcely dared flex his fingers for the nauseating sensation of squelching, formless flesh; and in the squalor of his cell he would simply curl himself up with his purpose, with his spite, and he would pray for the strength to endure.     

Deliriously he would dream, and waken, and dream again, and whether they were phantoms of his own mind or some evil cradling in which the Maia enmeshed him, he did not know, but he shivered as they tore at him all the same. Because Annatar was there; he was grinning, laughing, he was standing above him all vile and golden and beautiful and he was gutting him, he was cooing over his steaming entrails and through the hurt and the redness he was fucking him. And with each hurting press of flesh into flesh in one profane, guttural litany he was murmuring, _you love me_ , _my lord_ , and Celebrimbor moaned beneath him; he didn’t, he didn’t love him, he didn’t want this, he _didn’t_. 

But _blind_ , the Maia purred; the grind of his hips was exquisite and Celebrimbor moaned with the hurt of it, _plucked out your eyes and left you to stumble_ , he grunted as Annatar sheathed himself so awfully, so wonderfully inside of him, _hollow, hollow, so base a spawn of Fëanaro’s line._ And in the throes of his madness he rolled his hips into Annatar’s touch, he thrust his aching length into the Maia’s fingers, _a blemish on his legacy, a disgrace, a fuck-thing, unloved, unmourned_ and his father turned his face from him, his mother wept tears red as rubies and they tinkled to the floor as once more he spread his thighs, as he shivered in Annatar’s grip. _You love me_ , the Maia panted, _you love me_ ; Annatar blistered it into his skin and how shamefully Celebrimbor arched his back as he came, yes, he groaned, yes, yes, yes, and then everything came apart, Annatar smiled and the world shattered and - 

The slam of the cell’s door jerked Celebrimbor from a feverish dream, full of leering teeth and obscene moans, and as a ribbon of light spilled across the stained flagstones he cringed away from it. A figure stepped into the room then, tall and imposing and so horrifyingly familiar, and a moan of anguish wormed from his throat. He curled into the corner as far as his leash would allow, though his fingers itched and burned he gripped into himself, and desperately he tried to stifle the squalling panic that raced through his mind as the figure took one menacing step forward.

“N-no,” Celebrimbor whimpered; the words tripped over his lips as he cradled his head between his arms, they came in one terrified, uncontrollable bleat. “No, no, no, no, no, please, p-please…”

“Hush now, Tyelpë,” a voice purred, a golden voice, a voice that brought only hurt in its wake, and a horrified, half-hysterical choke burst from Celebrimbor’s chest. “Unless your time here has graced you with wisdom you might wish to impart?”

“No!” he hiccupped, he mumbled the frantic words into the wasted juncture of his thighs. “N-no… just… just leave me alone. _Leave me alone_ …”

“ _But you are alone_.” The Maia’s voice was awful; drawling and vindictive, and trapped below it Celebrimbor for a moment quailed. But though the effort of it was painful, desperately he scraped to himself whatever shreds of pride and stubbornness and hatred he had left, he pushed them out before him like a shield. With a colossal effort of will he forced himself to raise his head, and to look Annatar in the eye.

“Though,” the Maia said lightly, “I have something to show you. A gift of my own making…” 

“I don’t w-want your gifts!” Celebrimbor spat, though for all his vehemence, all too clearly Annatar could hear the wavering edge of hysteria in his voice, and how deeply he exulted in it. 

At the click of his fingers a leash was passed into his hands by an uruk stationed outside; a tug upon it saw another figure come stumbling through the doorway before Annatar forced them to their knees. About the Maia’s palm the leash was slowly twisted, before with cruel purpose Annatar wrenched the captive’s head back, and cold horror clawed through Celebrimbor’s innards at the bruised face that was revealed in the torchlight.

So gaunt he seemed, muscle and puppy-fat born of years at the anvil were melted away; those lips once so apt to merriment were quirked into a miserable line, those dark eyes once so full of life were glazed in a blank pall of despair as Annatar grasped Corannon’s head.

“Do you like him, Tyelpë?”

Acrid bile bubbled up in Celebrimbor’s throat, dismay gouged through him as Annatar reached over, as he traced one burning line across his friend’s cheekbone. For with passivity that was _sickening_ Corannon just knelt there, though flesh sizzled beneath the Maia’s fingers scarcely a tremor of reaction flitted over his face, and that more than anything sent terror spearing through Celebrimbor’s heart. 

“What a fiery spirit he once was…” Annatar pronounced, viciously he dug his finger into the elf’s cheekbone. “But all such things break in the end, don’t they?”

A sheen of sweat broke over Corannon’s brow, and suddenly the char of flesh became all too much. Repugnance and such clawing, mindless guilt rent through Celebrimbor’s very _fëa_ and hoarsely he cried, “ _Stop!_ Stop it, p-please…” 

“Why?” 

With a final twist of his finger Annatar relinquished the elf, who knelt shivering at his feet. The nauseating stench of burned flesh wafted through the chamber, but worse yet were the words that suddenly croaked over Corannon’s lips.

“ _Thank you, my lord_.”

Annatar’s grin was merciless. “For what, pet?”

It felt like someone had sewn Celebrimbor’s throat shut with wire as he watched his friend look up, he watched the friend whom he loved most in the world nuzzle his ruined face into Annatar’s treacherous hands, as he heard him whimper, “For hurting me, my lord. For… for hurting me, for him.” 

“What?” Celebrimbor croaked; the implications of Corannon’s words shimmered with their awful potential in his mind but savagely he batted them aside, he glared at Annatar with hatred in his eyes. “ _What have you done_?” 

“Where are the rings?” 

“I don’t… I _don’t know_ …” 

“You do know.”

Cold and fey were Annatar’s eyes as once more he grasped Corannon by the hair, as slowly he scratched a line of charred flesh down the elf’s cheek. And how Celebrimbor gagged as the reek of melted skin assaulted him anew; the rigid clench of tendons in Corannon’s neck set him heaving against the chains that held him, he fought and twisted as Annatar tortured his friend before him. He would have torn the very chains from the walls simply to make this end, he would have wrapped his mutilated fingers around Annatar’s throat and laughed as he throttled the life from him, but his manacles were forged of brute iron, and the first despairing sob welled up in his throat as all his efforts proved in vain.

“T-thank you, my lord,” Corannon gurgled, raw flesh bubbled upon his cheek, and openly Celebrimbor wept as his friend suffered, as guilt lurched up from his stomach and engulfed him. 

“Where are the rings, Tyelpë?” 

“They’re not here,” he sobbed, tears bled down his filthy cheeks as he whimpered, “They’re not here… I… I’m s-sorry, Corannon, I’m so-… I’m s-sorry… No! _No, stop_!” 

His voice rose to a screech as Annatar’s glare hardened, as remorselessly he reached for Corannon once more, but the Maia’s fingers closed upon air as Corannon suddenly coughed.

“Why, Tyelpë?” he croaked; and guilt throbbed through Celebrimbor’s heart with every horrific word. “Why are you sorry? Annatar… my lord is… is very kind to me. He only punishes me if you hurt him, if you disobey him. But he says it’s not your fault; you don’t mean to do it, because you’re my friend. He says you’re just being silly, that you’re just playing. But… but then I have to get hurt, because you wanted to play…”

“N-no…”

“He said you hurt him once, Tyelpë. You hurt him, and now he wants to hurt you, to make it fair.”

“ _Stop it_!” Desperately Celebrimbor tore against his restraints, skin split and cracked over his back as exhausted muscles strained, as he twisted and cursed, and impassively Annatar looked down upon him. 

“It’s okay, Tyelpë…” With a click of Annatar’s fingers Corannon curled to the Maia’s side, and idly Annatar toyed with his hair as he continued, “Annatar is kind to me… He is always gentle, unless… unless you…”

“Fuck you, Annatar.” A broken sob hitched through Celebrimbor’s chest, and wearily, hopelessly he watched as the Maia stroked Corannon once more, before beckoning to the guard outside, who took hold of the leash and dragged Corannon from the cell. “F-fuck you…” 

The ever-present aura that shrouded the Maia seemed almost to chime out its glee as for what seemed like a slow eternity Celebrimbor simply keened out his shame, until at last he gulped, “Why? ...Why are you doing this?” 

Annatar did not deign to answer such a miserable question, and an awful clutch of hysteria sizzled in Celebrimbor’s throat at the cruelty of his silence. “I th-thought…” 

“What?” the Maia said softly. “What did you think?” 

“I th-thought… I thought you were my _friend_ … I thought…” 

“You thought that you could love me.” 

The betrayal of it drowned him, and bitterly he wept for his folly, he wept for all the evil that had happened because of it. 

“And worse yet,” the Maia sneered, “you thought that I could love you. How sweet, Tyelpë… How _naïve_.” 

Celebrimbor flinched as the door slammed shut, as Annatar left him with nothing but darkness and guilt and the sour taste of loathing upon his tongue. And in the despairing time that came thereafter, whether it was himself or the Maia that he despised the more for their actions, truly he could not tell.  

 

* * *

 

It was not, of course, that Annatar could not _guess_ where the rings were. The morning light dappled down upon Ost-in-Edhil’s broken rooftops, a few stray strands of his golden hair drifted like an evanescent crown about his head as he stood upon the highest balcony of the house and absently beheld the activity below.

A thick, black file of orcs marched through the lower circles of the city, they poured from its gates and out into the barren plain beyond, but otherwise occupied were the Maia’s thoughts. The counsels of the Ring ever gnawed at him, its dark powers suffused him, his own evil caressed him with all of its seduction and all of its promise, and he opened himself to its embrace. With but the slightest will he could sense the Seven, and the lesser Nine; like bright beacons of flame they blazed within his mind’s eye, yet about him there were three smudged blurs also, indistinct and shifting if he should try to grasp them, and these he knew to be the things that eluded him.

To Gil-galad certainly one had been bestowed, he mused, swiping free the crust of frost from the marble balustrade before him and leaning upon it. No matter his ambitions, Celebrimbor was no king of the Noldor, and to slight his sovereign by withholding such a gift would be a grave insult that he could not afford. To Círdan perhaps another had gone, lord of the Teleri who clung like tenacious limpets to Middle-earth’s coasts despite the best efforts to exterminate them, or to Oropher, the last remnant of Doriath’s nobility squandering himself in a corrupt forest. Though, he thought irksomely, more likely to Galadriel one of the Three had passed; the last accursed member of Finwë’s line sent to plague the unhappy world.

Such deductions were easily gleaned, and until war was truly waged they were of little consequence; nay, it was the elf’s belligerence that was beginning to wear. Though such vicarious pleasure elated him as the elf screamed, as he writhed and choked in his misery, his brethren marched to the Bruinen in force, and rage had kindled in Annatar’s heart at their impudence. Let them come, he had thought, for there he would meet them in battle, with tooth and claw and iron and sorcery his forces would stand triumphant, and he would cripple the lands in his victory. He would see the river gorged with Elven blood until even the foam-capped waves frothed crimson.

In the crisp morning air a large contingent of his troops vacated the city, they readied themselves in a makeshift camp of tents that squatted before Ost-in-Edhil’s southern walls for the march that would begin upon the morrow. Yet as he watched their insectile forms spread across the plain, a surge of impatience tugged at Annatar’s heart, and below it bubbled only malevolence. 

Truly, his tolerance of Celebrimbor’s pathetic little mutiny was come to its end. 

The creak of the cell door was as a death-knell in Celebrimbor’s ears. A spluttering, terrified gasp forced its way up from his lungs, and tightly he curled himself up, he clutched his knees into his scarred chest and he keened as the Maia strode into the room. Shivers flitted through him, his breath clouded white in the narrow space between his knees as tighter still he hunched into himself, his gaunt knuckles bloodless and trembling.

“P-please…” he gasped, the words shook uncontrollably over his lips as instinct condemned him. “Please, Annatar… I… I’m so c-cold…” 

“Cold?” The Maia’s voice flowed imperiously through the room, and how Celebrimbor quailed to hear it; desperately he bit his lips to stop any more unwise things from slipping over them. He cringed away as Annatar walked forward, as suddenly the Maia knelt beside him; a mewling little cry seeped from him as a lank strand of hair was pushed back from his face. Because suddenly Annatar was there: Annatar was holding him and so lovely he seemed, so gentle and so falsely forgiving, but treacherous was the curl in his voice.

“Oh, Tyelpë,” he purred; and though he was not fully armoured, his hands were sheathed in cruel metal gauntlets. They clinked as he stroked the matted hair back from Celebrimbor’s haggard face. “We wouldn’t want that, now would we?"

The scrape of wood across stone and a brutish grunt of exertion sounded from over Annatar’s shoulder, and a terrified whimper flickered out of Celebrimbor’s throat as softly, almost _caringly_ Annatar unfastened the cutting shackles about his wrists and ankles. The leash fell away from his neck to leave him naked but for his collar, and feebly he wriggled as the Maia’s arm slipped about his scabbed shoulders, but the weak protests of cramped, wasted muscles brought him no avail. 

Slowly Annatar guided him to his unsteady feet, with such false sincerity he held him, he turned him about. And finally Celebrimbor’s gaze fell upon the sturdy wooden bench laid across the once-bare stones, upon the grim line of captains flanking the door whose stern expressions did not quite mask the leer in their eyes; and the dawning horror of what Annatar intended crashed down upon him.

“How about we warm you up, hmm?”   

Desperately he fought, he tugged away from Annatar’s grip with every ounce of panicked strength that he possessed, but cruelly his efforts failed him. The Maia’s grip was as iron claws upon him, Annatar grasped his struggling wrists anew and clamped them in tight cuffs at the small of his back. Fiercely he twisted, he thrashed, stinging adrenaline lent force to his protests but too little, _too little_ as the Maia shoved him forwards and forced him to bend face-down over the bench, as the ring upon his collar was clipped to a bolted fastening upon the bench’s head. He kicked and struggled as Annatar grasped his legs, as he wrenched them apart and fastened his ankles to the bench’s solid legs, spreading him humiliatingly wide.

Panic scourged through him as slowly Annatar withdrew, he cried and shook as rougher hands grasped him then; his chest and stomach crushed into the splintering wood of the bench as a strong uruk pressed down hard upon his squirming back. 

“ _Please_ …” he sobbed, “please, please d-don’t… _please_ …”

He choked as nails ran up his naked thighs; Annatar’s eyes gleamed with a vile light amid the shadows as uncaring hands spread him yet wider, as a barbed tongue licked slowly over his entrance. Piteously Celebrimbor cried; he bucked his hips in refusal as the uruk’s foul saliva slickened him, and a grunt of such awful pain and humiliation burst over his lips as two thick fingers breached him. Roughly the uruk manipulated him, each hurting thrust of its fingers forced him to open and with each one he gasped; he clutched to the failing shreds of his defiance, of hatred, of spite and anger and betrayal within him, desperately he clung to them and from them he wrenched the strength of endurance.

But still he struggled as at last that invading pressure withdrew; he panted, he _screamed_ for Annatar to stop as he heard the sinister clink of a belt-buckle behind him. But whether in that moment or not Celebrimbor would truly have broken none could say, and Annatar could not bring himself to care. He only revelled in the filth of the elf’s moan as the uruk pressed into him, as with one unrelenting thrust it sheathed itself to the hilt inside of him. 

Openly Celebrimbor sobbed as the uruk fucked him, as membranes ripped with the force of each hideous motion; he retched and cried as he felt blood begin to drool down the backs of his thighs. His fingers clenched into sore, helpless fists at the small of his back, each thrust scraped his torso across the coarse wood of the bench, and it was almost some horrific relief as Annatar sauntered forwards once more. 

“This may end whenever you wish it to,” Annatar murmured; with such awful, false tenderness he wiped the tears from Celebrimbor’s cheeks. “All you have to do, sweetling, is tell me what I desire to know.” 

From what hidden well of fortitude came the abhorrence that swelled through his veins Celebrimbor did not know; he knew only that it gripped him, and though every hurting shred of pride and flesh in him begged for him to submit, defiance yet blazed in him the brighter, and he gasped, “N-no…” 

“It would be kinder that way.” 

“Fuck you!” The breath jerked out of his lungs as the uruk slammed into him, the underside of his own naked length ground agonizingly into the bench below him, but through even that humiliation rebellion glowed in his heart, and fury prickled in his blood. “F-fuck you, Annatar… E-everyone in A-arda knows you r-rode your master’s c-cock like some moaning l-little whore…”

Pain ripped across his cheek, blood frothed between his teeth as the Maia’s slap sent his head spinning, yet through bubbling crimson he smiled as Annatar’s fingers knotted through his hair and wrenched his head upwards.

“What says it then,” the Maia snarled, “that you would prostitute your people to come screaming upon mine?” 

An incoherent gurgle lurched over Celebrimbor’s lips as the uruk reamed him, as suddenly, _mortifyingly_ he felt himself begin to harden with the forcible scrape of his own length across the bench.

“Do not bandy coarse words that you have not the wit to fathom,” Annatar sneered. “Especially not when your cock is _drooling_ its need across my table.”

A moan of humiliation rolled from Celebrimbor’s throat; desperately he bucked, he tried to stop the traitorous, unwanted stiffening of flesh, but again he cried out as the uruk’s nails stabbed into his hips, and the Maia’s smile above him was remorseless.

“How cruel our truths are in their revelation, are they not? All of our secrets, our _desires_ laid bare. Are you warm now, my lord? Warm, and full, and _wanting_ , just like you should be, just like you wished for…”

A whimper of protest curled over Celebrimbor’s lips as Annatar ground his burning cheek into the wood beneath him; he shuddered and twitched as the uruk slammed into him, as the Maia abandoned him to its pleasures. But all too soon he felt the ugly spurt of seed up inside of him, the uruk growled out its lust as he suffered below it. With one aching pull at last the uruk slid free of him, and he shuddered with the humiliation of it as he felt it pat him so degradingly upon the arse, as if he were just some wilful steed to be whipped and ridden, and then left broken and frightened in its bonds.

His thighs trembled with the strain of his position; a crimson flush mottled down his neck as he dragged against the chains that fettered him, as he felt himself so lewdly torn open and unable to close. The creamy mess of the uruk’s seed slowly dripped from him. It painted an obscene collage of fluid across the floor. 

“Well, Tyelperinquar,” Annatar said coldly from the shadows. “Any wiser words seen fit to grace you?” 

“F-fuck you,” he gasped; he shuddered as he felt warm, viscous liquid sliding down his thighs, but with every ounce of quivering strength in him he ignored it. “F-fuck…” 

An exasperated sigh sounded in his ears; a smattering of crude laughter and the tramp of fresh boots rang behind him, and those simple little noises were like the cracks in the dam that herald the panicking flood. For how quickly the bravado that he clung to was shattered as meaty hands kneaded the sore flesh of his arse, as they caressed him to the captains’ jeers; they pinched him, slapped him, ugly laughter sounded in his ears as two thick fingers shoved effortlessly up inside of him. 

“No…” he moaned, he squirmed with what frantic little motions that his bonds allowed him as horror reared in his heart. “No… please, p-please… stop… _stop_ …” 

At Annatar’s gesture the orc captain slid free of him, and quickly the Maia demanded, “The rings. _Where are they?_ ”

Something buckled in Celebrimbor’s chest: despair warred with pride, they crashed and heaved and tore within him until one proved the greater. Grim purpose sutured him together though his body howled to break apart; he would not betray this, the one last worldly thing that he possessed, he cradled that knowledge within himself and he would not divulge it, _he would not betray it_ , so much Annatar had taken from him but he would not have this. But frantically still the words poured over his lips, they had almost lost all meaning as blindly he repeated them, and he knew that they would condemn him. 

“I c-can’t… I d-… _I don’t know_ … I don’t know where they are, _I don’t know_ , please, _please_ Annatar, please _s-stop_ …”

“Not good enough, Tyelpë." 

And with a force that shoved the breath from his lungs the orc thrust into him. A series of broken, retching sobs gulped over his lips as the orc fucked him, as the captains laughed, as Annatar watched over him with nothing but dispassion.

For how long it went on, for how many of them there were Celebrimbor soon lost count: time and touch seemed to blur into one gruelling eternity, mellifluous and hurting, desperate and futile. He sobbed and groaned as Snagbur slammed into him; hopelessly, instinctively he had twitched as a hot, laving line of welts was bitten into his thighs; he moaned his agony into the wood as a hurting, humiliating climax was wrung from him. His length throbbed in Yulvur’s bristled palm as the orc so callously stroked him, as shamefully he spurted his seed into his torturer’s fingers, and how the captains’ laughter had shattered in his ears as they made him lick himself from Yulvur’s palm. And against it all he simply shut his eyes, he prayed that each hurting touch upon him might be the last, he prayed that Annatar would get bored of him, would just let him end, would leave him curled up with his misery and just let him fade away; but with each new horror, each jeer, each slur, each hard thrust of flesh into abused flesh, he felt hope wither in his heart.

And through red-rimmed eyes, through bloodied lips he _screamed_ as they dragged Corannon forwards, he choked and coughed and gagged in his horror as they forced his friend to mount him, to fuck him; guilt and shame smashed through him and it rendered him speechless but for the gulp of each laboured, shaking breath. Blindly Corannon pressed into him; slippery, torn flesh parted once more, and so awfully bleached was his friend’s voice as he crooned, “We’re only playing Tyelpë. Annatar says it’s all right, you deserve it… you deserve it, Tyelpë… we’re only playing, but you lost the game…”

The words pounded with a sick, lilting cadence through Celebrimbor’s head, he wasn’t even sure what he was holding on to anymore as he felt his friend wrenched out of him, slapped, kicked, _thank you, my lord_ , discarded to the floor and there made to bleed; everything was numb and wrong and like drifting through a dream filled with nothing but ashes; he could not remember why he endured, he remembered only that he must. But somewhere in the empty abyss he clutched to that nameless purpose, that lone anchor against the weight of all of that despair, the one thing that seemed to hold him together; the one salvation that might absolve him of his sins, and of all the sins wreaked upon him.

A wet, shuddering gasp clove through his lungs as a hefty uruk spent its seed inside of him; so far beyond all notion of pride or dignity he moaned as its length slid free of him. And for a moment their assault paused, but uncontrollably he trembled in exhaustion and terror as Annatar sauntered back over to him. 

“Uncle Maitimo cried too, you know,” the Maia purred; so awfully, so possessively he stroked one gauntleted finger across Celebrimbor’s cheekbone. “At first. Soon after we had him begging for it, on his knees with wet lips and open thighs and how he came to _adore_ what tender affections we bestowed upon him. And here you are, my lord, moaning like a little slut before me. Would you beg for my affections too, I wonder?”    

The breath hissed in over Celebrimbor’s lips, and through gritted teeth at last he slurred, “I w-will not beg anything from you…”

“Pity.” A fickle silence crackled through the room, caprice plucked its dainty, devastating tune at Annatar’s heart, and his eyes gleamed as he murmured, “Then perhaps our little flirtations have reached their end.”

Metal crunched before Celebrimbor’s flushed cheeks; reticulated lames of steel glinted like bristling silver scales across the back of the Maia’s palm as he clenched his gauntleted fists. The look in his eyes was unholy as hard he dragged the pointed tips of his fingers across Celebrimbor’s face, as he scored white lines over the elf’s shuddering ribs, across his back; he dug reddened furrows into the sore flesh of Celebrimbor’s arse as he sauntered to his rear, and the elf whined pitifully beneath him.  

“Such an _unfortunate_ name you bear,” the Maia sneered, he poised himself between the elf’s legs splayed so deliciously before him. Blood trickled through the mess that slicked Celebrimbor’s thighs, red drooled through viscous white, and how beautifully the elf clenched in dire anticipation as Annatar dragged a finger through the spill of his captains’ seed.  

“Tyelperinquar,” he purred, “the silver-fist…” Argent light glittered upon the Maia’s gauntlets, and Celebrimbor cried out as Annatar’s fingers wandered their taunting way towards his abused, gaping entrance.

“D-don’t…” he moaned, “no, please, please, no, no _d-don’t…”_

“ _Atya_ had a cruel sense of humour, now didn’t he?”

With appalling ease Annatar’s fingers slipped inside of him, slickened by seed and blood the cold metal ran smoothly, and Celebrimbor could only lie there weeping as once more he was violated. Feebly he twitched as Annatar slipped a third finger up inside of him, and behind it a fourth; he groaned with that invading pressure, with that horrifying sense of fullness, of degradation. Yet the Maia’s fingers lay motionless inside of him, his thumb rested mortifyingly upon the curve of his arse, and as the static seconds trickled by that humiliation turned only to dread.

“It did not have to be this way.”

Slowly Celebrimbor felt the Maia’s fingers curve inside of him, spiked metal pressed against his innards, deeper and harder with each passing instant, and panic bucked through Celebrimbor’s heart. With every ounce of his willpower he stifled the instinct to writhe, blank horror shrieked through his mind at what such an action would achieve, and a retch of pain came clawing up his throat as slowly, insistently Annatar’s gauntlets impaled him just a little bit further. Terror paralysed him; there was nothing more that could ever be said, and only series of despairing, hysterical whimpers tumbled over his lips as he felt the Maia ready himself.

“I hope your secrets were worth it, Tyelpë.”

The _shriek_ that was torn from Celebrimbor’s lungs was inhuman; Annatar ripped his hand free in a gout of blood and seed and mutilated strips of flesh. Agony raced through Celebrimbor’s exhausted body, he thrashed and retched and sobbed until finally it became all too much, blackness enveloped him into its numbing oblivion, and all too gladly he fell into that empty embrace. Tremors flitted through his unconscious body, blood sluiced to the stones beneath him as every muscle in him fell limp, and from the elf’s slumped, befouled form Annatar at last turned, crowned in sick, mellow triumph.

His captains he dismissed, and well sated they departed, save Lommur, who lingered awhile in the doorframe as Annatar carefully unfastened his bloodied gauntlets and set them aside.

“Have care, my lord,” the captain growled, as with experienced eyes he appraised the wretched elf left bolted to the table. “The _snaga_ will not live, unless this is your intent. The bleeding is too much. It must be staunched…”

With a disinterested sigh Annatar turned to Celebrimbor’s prone form, and summoned to himself a sharp spell of puissance. One finger he touched to the elf’s buttock, he branded his spell there in a weal of singed flesh.

“He will live,” he said simply, and briskly Lommur nodded in agreement. 

Strapped to the bench then they left Celebrimbor to the dark hours of the night. In the merciful grip of unconsciousness he slumbered, and though everything in him yearned for an ending, Annatar’s spell scourged through his veins. It tingled in his blood and bade it keep flowing, it aerated ruptured muscles and invigorated flesh that simply longed to collapse; it healed hurts that might otherwise have been fatal and bound them into a torturous existence. 

For though the affairs of war drew Annatar’s attentions elsewhere, not quite so easily would he relinquish the elf that had defied him so, and a bitter ending played ever upon his mind.

 

* * *

                     

The next day, they made him walk.

Rough hands dragged Celebrimbor from a nightmarish sleep, and though his muscles cramped and burned after so long in confinement, though dried fluids flaked down his inner thighs, they hauled him up and made him stand. The city was emptying, his captors snarled, the troops marshalled in force before the walls, and all must follow their lord to war.

Naked and wounded Celebrimbor was pulled into the courtyard, and after so long in darkness even the pallid light that filtered through the thick broil of clouds above him set his eyes watering. Desperately he squinted, he tugged against the bonds that clamped his wrists at the small of his back; he coughed and shuddered as the cold air seared through his lungs. In Yulvur’s vice-like grip he whimpered as the orc secured a long leash to his collar, and miserably he watched where it was passed. He swayed as Annatar grasped it, mounted and smirking atop a great warhorse, and with cruel disdain the Maia tied the leash to the cantle of his saddle before turning away, and spurring his horse on down the road. 

Through the ruins of his city they forced him to march. He stumbled over stones that once he had called his home, crowned only in his disgrace he was paraded through the city that he loved, and tears of hurt flowed silently down his cheeks. Jeers and catcalls whistled about him, _snaga_ , whore, cruel laughter rained down upon him as he faltered, as his hips ached, as fragile membranes of skin tore and blood began to trickle anew down his thighs.

Desperately he swallowed down the sob that burned in his lungs as each halting step brought him only a new agony, as mockery drowned him, as all that had been destroyed for his pride and his arrogance and his greed was so miserably laid bare, and how fervidly he despised himself for it. It was his fault, all of it, he was too weak, too blind, too stubborn; the weight of his shame engulfed him and beneath it he fell apart. Despairing tears greased the stones beneath his feet, his skinny thighs trembled, and misery clotted in his ribs as a swift yank upon the leash brought him stumbling onwards. 

His knees felt like they might buckle beneath him as at last he was pulled through the outer gates, their ornate stonework smashed and ruined. But how thinly then he cried out his horror at the sight that befell him. For before the walls were staked what was left of the nobles of his house, splayed out in hideous array and sickening cruelty. Flies swarmed amid rotted, raw eye-sockets; Gilthariel cradled her festering guts in her arms like a newborn babe, her scarred face branded and torn as she hung by a cruel noose. A great spike erupted from Vëantor’s gaping mouth, it clove through his chest, and ragged strands of his auburn hair floated sadly in the reeking waft of the breeze. Atrocities heaped upon atrocities, debasements, _mutilations_ ; and Celebrimbor’s stomach turned as his eyes fell at last upon Corannon.

His knees crumbled to the merciless grit below him; he keened out his agony as he beheld his friend; the hook that skewered through his lower jaw and arched his neck cruelly backwards, the blood that clotted about its puncture and glistened upon his pale throat. The orcs had left him upon the stake like some grotesque fish left drying upon a line, limply he dangled from the rope bonds that secured him ankle and wrist, and Celebrimbor sobbed his shame into the dirt between his legs as sorrow crashed down upon him.

An iron-shod boot slammed into his ribs, a whip cracked perilously close to his face, but as a retching cough burst over his lips Celebrimbor could give no more; his legs simply would not hold him as shock and pain and utter desolation took their savage toll.

“Get him up,” Annatar commanded, and swiftly two uruks stepped forward.

They hauled Celebrimbor upright, hands clamped about the elf’s scarred upper arms to support him but even that simple motion proved too much. Celebrimbor’s head lolled forward onto his chest, hurt and exhaustion numbed him, they bled the strength from his limbs as the stones below his feet blurred and refocused wildly before his eyes. Limply he hung in the uruks’ arms, his shaking legs half-folded and useless beneath him, and the last thing he remembered before the blackness yawned up beneath him was the jostle of the leash upon his collar, and Annatar’s evil smile in his eyes.

The hiss of a flare and the tramp of hurried boots thudded in Celebrimbor’s ears as days or hours later he drifted back into a bleary consciousness. A ragged moan flickered out of his throat as his eyes slitted open, bodies and shapeless things swirled before him, and so fervently he wished that he had not lived to see the horrors of the dawn. 

Upon a wooden stake he was mounted, the device was resting at a gentle slant only a few inches perpendicular to the ground below, and though his muscles cramped and itched, weakly he strained upon it. The crossways beam studded into his upper back, his arms were pinioned awkwardly about it, and his fingers twitched feebly as bonds of cord strangled the life from them. Sturdy leather straps lashed his legs to the main post, and would not give an inch no matter how greatly he heaved against them. A whimper trembled from his throat as even such small efforts were exhausting, and he fell limp as the horrors of what such a thing might portend shimmered in his mind. 

And how coldly such horrors were confirmed as his gaze flickered to Annatar kneeling beside him, armoured and beautiful, a coronet of black spires bound about his brow and brutal disdain in his eyes.

Thin, rectangular strips of aluminium metal slid in the Maia’s hands; two large jars of translucent liquid were placed neatly at his side, and ignoring the elf’s spluttered protests Annatar pressed the metal to the skin of Celebrimbor’s chest. A strange pattern he sketched out, and though Celebrimbor squirmed and shook against him sagely he continued, piece by menacing piece paving the metal into the elf’s skin. 

“What…” Celebrimbor gurgled; the words were scarcely discernible for the thickness of his tongue. “Wh-what are you d-doing?” 

Quietly Annatar appraised him, another strip of metal he laid in the continuous circuit forming over the slope of the elf’s stomach, and softly he replied, “I am proclaiming my legacy.”

“N-no,” Celebrimbor moaned, he glanced down at himself and he lurched as he saw what the Maia was doing, he glimpsed but a part of the pattern that Annatar would lay upon him and it terrified him. “P-please,” he whimpered, “please, p-please, just leave me alone… just… _just let me go_ …”

“And where would you go?” Dark and rich were Annatar’s words, soaked in honey and filled with sleeping venom, and Celebrimbor keened as they clove through him.

“I don’t… _I d-don’t know_ …”

“Your city is broken,” the Maia drawled. “Your brethren are besieged. These lands are mine, for you have betrayed them to me. You bartered your homeland for the blindness of your own greed, and graciously I have accepted what you have sold. There is no place left upon this earth for your miserable kin.”

An anguished sob caught in Celebrimbor’s throat as those awful truths leached through him, but so tenderly Annatar held him then, the Maia placed the last of the metal in a vertical line upon his sternum and leaned forwards to caress him. 

“Shh, my lord, it’s all right now. It’s all right. Lay such difficult thoughts aside now, hmm?” The sweetness in the Maia’s voice was appalling; it was as cloying as the gentle kiss that Annatar placed upon his shivering lips. “You’re here, Tyelpë, you’re here with me, and I have a gift for you. A repayment for all the favour, for all of the _affections_ that you have shown me throughout these long years.” 

And how Celebrimbor’s eyes widened in horror as Annatar lifted one of the jars beside him, he twisted and struggled in his bonds as carefully the Maia tipped it, as concentrated liquid lye splashed down upon him. It splattered down upon the metal and he _screeched_ as it began to fizz, to bubble, to blacken; Annatar poured more down upon him and he shrieked as it scorched through the metal. A wordless scream ripped out of his throat as Annatar traced the liquid over him; he convulsed as it corroded through his skin, as the stench of liquefying tissues seized him, as the agony of it left him gagging on bile. A murky, reddened silt of skin and fat and ruined tissue sluiced over his chest, and through his pain all too clearly now he saw Annatar’s malice unveiled, and his mind reeled with the horror of it.

A brand the Maia had carved out of flesh; a red, weeping eye he burned into Celebrimbor’s quailing chest, and how ardently he lusted at the sight of it. The elf jerked and gagged below him, flesh collapsed into wet, blistering burns as the chemical sizzled through his skin, and gluttonously then Annatar purred, “You should be proud, Tyelpë. You wear my mark so prettily…” 

A burly orc hurried over as Annatar spoke, with two companions behind it, and quickly they saluted their lord. At Annatar’s nod they started forwards; a shrill trumpet blared suddenly in the distance, and at its call a throaty chorus of bugles loosed in reply. Upon the eastern banks of the Bruinen war was come, banners spangled with silver stars were unfurled at the fortified crossing of Sarn Ford, but the Red Eye had not yet answered. Annatar had not yet declared his challenge. 

Slowly the orcs hefted up the stake until it stood vertical, and deliriously Celebrimbor moaned as the bonds about him grew tauter still. Stinging blood drooled down his chest; he scarcely had strength left in him to struggle as it burned fresher still, and the sheer degradation of what Annatar intended for him drowned him in its horror.

“Consider it an honour,” the Maia purred. “You herald in a new age of this unhappy earth.”   

The moan that began in Celebrimbor’s throat cut off into a muted shriek as an orc arrow suddenly plunged into him, and another, and another; blank shock numbed him as raven-fletched quarrels skewered through his limbs, through his hips, his stomach. Visceral tears trickled down his cheeks as the orcs desecrated him, as the brand across his chest and upper stomach was left so horrifically bare, and as the orcs lifted the stake and brought him forwards through their assembled ranks Annatar was there in step beside him. And in those awful moments he hated the Maia, with abhorrence beyond enduring he _hated_ him, for all the evil that he had done and all that he would do, and perhaps in the madness of his despair still he loved him, and therein was his undoing. 

For as they reached the very frontline of the army the Maia reached up to touch him gently, and tenderly he crooned, “I know it hurts, sweetling.” 

The Red Eye unfurled from the host of banners that sprung up in their wake, drums pounded as the orcs raised him higher, and slowly Annatar unsheathed his knives. 

“I know it hurts, but look now. Look upon your brethren, and know how you have betrayed them. Know that they will fall, they will bleed, and scream, and perish in the filth that spawned them, and it will be because of you. Know this, my lord, for here at the end of our friendship I gift it to you, for all of the kindness that you have shown me, and for all of your cruelties.”

Bloodied saliva drooled from Celebrimbor’s lips; a whimper beyond the gentle veils of sanity tore from him as guilt clove through him anew, and despair shone as white as bone through the ruin of his chest as the orcs staved the stake into the ground. Fell voices cried in his ears, little by little the strength leached from him as he heard the _roar_ of outrage as his brethren spied him, he heard the clamour of their rage and in his shame and his misery he could not bear to look upon them. The sun would bleed into a horizon licked with flames, the mountains would spew out their pain and their ruin as his people fell, and all because of him, all because of his blindness, his weakness, all because he had dared to love another. In anguish and innocence, in tenderness and evil he had loved Annatar, he had loved him so much that it hurt just to look upon him, and as the tumult of battle rode over him at last he shut his eyes. 

Desolate tears glittered upon his lashes, breath fluttered through his failing lungs, and though it was craven he felt the life slip from him, and he let himself drift, and he prayed no more for absolution. The bitter crash of steel rung in his ears, and his tears dripped into the weeping, ulcerated wounds over his chest, and at the utmost cataclysm of his kingdom he knew his purpose was made void. The secrets of the Three were null, their resolution crumbled, but there was no magnificence in his sacrifice, there was no righteousness, no pride: his people would come to ruin and it was still by his hand that they were condemned to the slaughter, and how he _hated_ himself for it. His glories were in vain; trembling muscles slackened and he could not raise them, Annatar would glut himself upon the entrails of his kin and he could not prevent it, the lands of Eriador would burn in the war that he had kindled, and the ashes would only taste of his failure.

Red tears trickled down his chest and he could not stop them. He could not even watch as they fell. 

For at the end of all things he felt despair and pain take him, and into the aching abyss that reared open before him at last he tipped, and then there was no more.   

 

 

* * *

_And thus (with not inconsiderable relief) this fic is concluded! I’d like to say a huge thank you to everyone who’s read it, and survived it, and who has been so encouraging and supportive with your comments and kudos and messages the entire way through! Without you guys these things would never get written, so really, thank you <3 From the bottom of my heart I hope you’ve enjoyed it, and I would love to hear what you think of it; all comments are treasured like Melkor’s burning lust for the Silmarils :3_

_So that ends my latest large-scale writing endeavour, but certainly some smaller pieces (and maybe a new Melkor/Sauron series) will emanate from me over the summer!_

_As always, if you want to come have a chat or anything then markedasinfernal.tumblr.com is the place where you’ll find me lurking!_

_Thank you once again, dear reader, for your time, and see you upon whatever the next literary adventure shall be!_

 


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